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LIBRARY     -    . 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 

FROM  THE  LIBRARY 
OF  F.  VON  BOSCHAN 


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UCSB   LIBRARY 


I  .11  M.t 


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r»«^»%r^V4S^v? 


T  11  K 


GALLERIES 


OF 


VIENNA. 

^  fdcctian  of  (i;uflvariu() 


AFTR;{    the     MOSr    ('KLEI}I!ATKD    TU'TURES    IX    the    IMl'EHIAL    (iALI-ERY    OF    THE 
BELVEDEUE,   AVI)   FKOM  OTHER   REN'OW.VED   COLLECTIONS  L\   VIENNA. 


WITH    DEStJRIPTIVE    TEXT, 


ADOLPFIUS      OOKHI.  INr&,      ESQ. 


TRANSLATED    FROM    THK    GERMAN    BY 

W.  C.    VVRA-NKMORE,   ESQ. 


NEW    YORK: 
D.   A  FPL  ETON    &    COMPANY, 

+43  &   44.5    BROADWAY. 
1867. 


THE 


THE  LUTE-PLAYER, 


AFTER 

BERNABDO  STBOZZI. 


!^ 


The  Italian  painters  who  took  nature  as  their  guide,  the  pupils  and  followers  of  the 
great  Michel  Augelo  da  Caravaggio,  possessed,  with  few  exceptions,  the  important  secret 
of  imbuing  their  works  with  a  close  adherence  to  natural  objects  rarely  found  in  the 
pictures  of  those  masters  who  painted  only  from  the  ideal.  They  portray  nature  as 
it  is;  they  make  no  pretensions  to  any  fixed  idea  of  grace,  of  grandeur,  or  of  refined 
sentiment,  but  they  seem  to  have  produced  them  without  eflFort — intuitively — ;  at  the  same 
time  it  must  be  admitted  that  these  masters  invariably  chose  the  most  favourable  and 
attractive  moment,  that  they  well  knew  how  to  charm  the  senses  of  the  beholder,  and  to 
spirit  him  away  into  the  world  of  their  perceptions. 

Their  works  are  less  calculated  for  the  eye  of  the  mere  superficial  observer,  inas- 
much as  they  frequently  display  incorrectness  of  drawing,  arbitrary  arrangement  of  compo- 
sition and  an  exuberance  of  colour:  the  real  lover  of  art,  however,  will  fed  inclined  to  over- 
look these  discrepancies  while  admiring  the  vigour  and  boldness  with  which  the  ensemble 
is  treated.  To  their  figure  subjects  they  impart  powerful  and  striking  effects,  giving  a  cer- 
tain vitality  to  those  which  occupy  but  an  unimportant  part  of  the  scene,  and  rendering  them 
of  use  in  the  composition;  and  in  their  landscajies  they  either  introduce  a  flintastic  wildness 
or  a  melancholy  monotony  by  a  brilliancy  of  colour,  or  by  a  mournful  si^lendour,  each 
clearly  conveying  the  feeling  of  the  painter,  and  acting  upon  our  senses  accordingly.  It 
cannot  be  denied  that  the  character  and  force  which  they  threw  into  their  compositions,  to- 
gether with  the  unlimited  freedom  they  exercised  in  their  treatment,  justly  command  our  ad- 
miration and  astonishment. 

The  tenor  of  their  productions  never  borders  on  the  ideal;  it  is  an  illustration,  not 
only  of  the  character,  but  of  the  way  of  life  of  the  painter;  take,  for  instance,  the  bold, 
dashing,  fiery  style  of  Caravaggio,  the  charming  grace  of  Pompeo  Batoni,  the  wild  and  iron- 
ical Salvator  Eosa,  and  the  sentient,  animated  Franceschini;  the  individuality  of  these 
men  can  no  more  be  separated  from  their  works  than  can  that  of  the  ruthless,  proud,  half 
melancholy  Strozzi. 


Galleries  of  Vienua. 


I 


2  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Strozzi  was  a  Genoese,  and,  like  his  countrymen,  had  a  clear  perception  of  things  as 
they  are,  and  is  much  more  circumspect  than  the  more  feverish,  excitable  Italian  of  the 
South.  His  first  pictures,  painted  after  the  manner  of  his  master,  C.  Corte,  betray  an  insi- 
pidity quite  contrary  to  the  accepted  style  of  the  age.  At  the  commencement  of  nis  career 
he  meditated  more  than  his  powers  enabled  him  to  achieve.  In  his  large  picture  of  the 
Holy  Sacrament,  in  the  chapel  of  St.  Tommaso  in  Genoa,  the  countenances  are  intellectual 
and  expressive,  exhibiting  proofs  of  great  study,  but  the  picture  taken  as  a  whole  leaves  but 
a  cold  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  spectator. 

After  studying  some  time  the  style  of  Domenico  Passignano,  under  the  guidance  of 
the  Siennese  Pietro  Sorri,  his  coloui-ing  became  more  genial;  still  that  fervent  zeal  for  the 
representation  of  sacred  history,  to  which  he  chiefly  directed  his  talents,  had  not  yet  reached  its 
height — he  endeavoured  to  acquire  this  by  taking  a  resolute  step  and  changing  his  habits  of 
life.  To  effect  this  he  joined  the  order  of  the  Capuchin  monks,  became  a  pattern  in  the  ob- 
servance of  rigid  discipline,  an  humlile  and  sincere  devotee  to  the  toachingly  innocent  creed 
and  ecstatic  visions  of  holy  mysteries  peculiar  to  Fra  Angelo.  His  picture  of  the  Madonna 
and  child,  in  which  an  angel  is  introduced,  in  the  palace  of  the  old  republic,  is  a  production 
of  this  ascetic-enthusiastic  tendency. 

//  Cappuccino,  as  Strozzi  was  now  called,  began  to  attain  celebrity.  The  holy  father 
in  Rome  found  the  young  painter  of  such  importance,  that  he  permitted  him  to  leave  the 
cloister  when  his  mother  was  lying  on  a  sick  bed  and  longed  for  his  presence.  From  the 
moment  that  the  gates  of  the  cloister  were  closed  after  him  another  course  of  life  was  opened 
to  Strozzi. 

Bernardo  Strozzi  was  at  this  time  about  twenty  eight  years  of  age.  According  to 
his  portrait,  his  head  was  remarkably  beautiful.  The  eye  is  full  of  fire,  but,  at  the  same  time, 
the  look  is  full  of  poetical  meditation.  Tiie  forehead  discovers  energy,  and  the  features,  espe- 
cially the  mouth,  are  exceedingly  pleasing.  He  at  length  found  himself  in  the  humble  abode 
of  his  mother,  where  men  of  rank,  the  friends  he  had  won  through  his  abilities  in  the  art 
which  he  followed,  did  not  disdain  to  visit  him.  Weeks  and  months  elapsed  without  any 
mention  being  made  relative  to  the  return  of  Strozzi  to  the  monastery,  for  his  motlier  was  cot 
yet  restored  to  health. 

In  the  meantime,  the  religious  superiors  of  the  young  monk  had  arrived  at  the  con- 
viction, that  his  mother  no  longer  lay  in  imminent  danger;  they  sent  to  Bernardo  to  en- 
quire when  he  purposed  returning  to  his  cell!  This  being  the  first  time  that  any  notice 
had  been  taken  of  his  alisence,  he  found  no  difficulty  in  obtaining  a  longer  leave,  but, 
on  repeated  requests  being  made,  he  was  soon  obliged  to  resort  to  excuses,  which  at 
length  induced  the  holy  fathers  to  suspect  that  his  will  only  was  wanting  to  comply  with 
their  demand.  After  all  doubt  had  been  removed  in  the  cloister,  they  resolved  to  take 
stringent  measures  against  the  painter. 

One  evening  as  Bernardo,  sunk  in  the  deepest  reverie,  was  sitting  in  his  mother's 
room,  the  old  woman  vainly  intreating  him  to  reveal  to  her  the  cause  of  his  sadness,  the 
Pater  Guardian  of  his  cloister  entered,  and  delivered  into  his  hands  an  oi'der  from  the  prior 
commanding  his  return,  according  to  his  duty,  that  same  evening,  to  the  monastery  and  there 
to  remain. 

Fra  Bernardo  had  worked  himself  up  to  the  highest  state  of  excitement,  and  read  the 


THE    LUTE-PLAYEIi,    AFTEK    BEKXAEDO    STKOZZI.  3 

fatal  decree  with  all  appearance  of  alarm.  He  seemed  for  a  short  time  to  be  sfrugglinpr  with 
his  feelings,  soon  recovered  himself,  however,  folded  the  parchment  together,  and  silently 
handed  it  to  the  Pater  Guardian. 

"What  am  I  to  do  with  tliis?"  asked  the  monk,  astonished.  "This  is  for  thee — 
thou  wilt  therefore  keep  it." 

"Worthy. sir!"  replied  Bernardo  in  a  firm  voice,  "I  cannot  venture  to  retain  a  writing 
which  proves  that  the  most  worthy  prior  and  the  convent  of  our  cloister  are  acting  in  di- 
rect opposition  to — are  encroaching  upon — the  rights  of  the  holy  father  himself." 

"What  sayest  thou?"  cried  the  Pater  Guardian  crossing  himself.  "Hast  thou  lost  thy 
senses,  that  thou  usest  such  blasphemous  language?" 

"I  know  well  what  I  say,"  returned  Bernardo:  "I  am  authorized  by  his  holiness  the 
pope  to  leave  the  cloister,  consequently,  unless  prompted  by  my  ow'n  feelings,  my  return 
cannot  be  insisted  upon  otherwise  than  by  a  decree  from  Rome." 

The  Pater  Guardian  may  probably  have  coincided  with  the  justice  of  this  argument, 
or  thought  it  advisable  to  hold  a  consultation  on  this  question.    He  remained  silent. 

After  a  long  pause  he  began: 

"AVhy  do  not  thine  own  feelings  prompt  thee  to  return?  It  is  evident  that  thy  filial 
duties  no  longer  bind  thee  here!" 

"Look  on  my  poor  mother,  and  say  whether  she  is  in  a  state  to  part  with  her 
only  son." 

The  pater  cast  a  searching  glance  upon  the  countenance  of  the  old  woman,  and  re- 
marked that,  "notwithstanding  she  looked  so  pale  and  thin,  there  was  no  cause  whatever 
to  be  apprehensive  of  her  becoming  seriously  worse." 

"If  St.  Rochus  protect  thy  mother  from  the  pest,"  continued  he,  "she  may,  as  I  fer- 
vently hope  she  will,  live  a  goodly  number  of  years.  By  Jesus!  she  looks  as  fresh  and  lively 
as  a  weasel " 

The  mother  folded  her  hands,  shook  her  head,  and  looked  up  to  heaven. 

"  Well,  if  not  now,  let  us  hope  that  it  may  be  so,  Signora.  Wert  thou  even  so  sick  as 
thy  Bernardo  declares  thee,  thou  wouldst,  I  doubt  not,  as  thou  lookest  forward  to  eternity — 
thou  wouldst  be  careful  of  the  first  duty  of  thy  son— thou  wouldst  not  that  he  should  violate 
the  vow  he  has  taken  as  a  member  of  our  order." 

"Reverend  father,"  replied  the  old  woman,  with  a  weak,  trembling  voice,  "to  have  my 
only  child  with  me  is  a  consolation,  a  comfort,  but  heaven  forliid  that  my  love  for  Ber- 
nardo should  induce  me  to  commit  so  heavy  a  sin.  I  will  give  my  son  my  blessing,  and 
then  he  may  leave  me.  Should  my  sickness  again  grow  serious,  I  doubt  not  that  the  Mon- 
signore  Priore  will  give  him  a  dispensation  for  a  day  or  two — had  he  a  mother,  whom  the 
pious  gentleman  would  love  no  less  than  my  dear  son,  whose  heart " 

"Signora  Benvenuta,  I  will  answer  for  it,  tliat  Bernardo  be  permitted  to  come  and 
see  you  as  often  as  you  may  reasonably  desire.  This,  I  think,  will  be  sufficient  to  set  aside 
all  objections  on  your  part,  with  regard  to  the  return  of  your  son  within  our  walls.  I  there- 
fore beg  thee,  brother  Bernardo,  to  get  ready  and  to  follow  me." 

During  this  conversation  the  painter   sat  with  his  head  deeply  sunk  on  his   breast. 

He   now    rose,  walked    unsteadily    across    the    room,  pressed  the  hand  of  his  mother,   and 

resumed  his  seat. 

1* 


4  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"It  must  remain  as  I  said,"  he  at  length  replied  in  a  hoarse  agitated  tone.  "To-mor- 
row I  purpose  writing  a  letter  of  thanks  to  the  holy  father,  and  to  inform  his  holiness  of  my 
intention  to  return  to  the  cloister.  As  soon  as  1  shall  receive  his  answer,  I  will  obey  the 
commands  of  the  Monsignore  Priore,  if  I  can  without  charging  my  conscience " 

"Now  speak'st  thou  rationally!"  cried  the  Pater  Guardian  in  astonishment,  at  the  same 
time  seizing  the  hand  of  Bernardo.  "Reflect — be  thyself.  Blessed  Jesus!  I  behold  here  some 
more  powerful  influence  in  operation  than  that  of  filial  aflFection  only Eeveal,  con- 
fess the  sinful  secret  which  seduced  thee  to  stray  into  the  path  of  perdition!  Stand  up 
against  the  seductive  world,  and  shew  thyself  a  brave  champion  of  Christ,  as  one  hitherto 
held  up  by  thy  brothers  as  a  pattern  of  perfection." 

"Leave  him,  father  Filippo,"  entreated  the'  mother,  raising  her  voice  to  the  highest 
pitch  she  was  able.  "Grant  him  but  a  short  time  for  consideration,  and  I  give  you  my  word 
that  he  shall  never  again  give  you  cause  to  be  dissatisfied  with  him.  Remember,  he  is  a 
painter,  and,  indeed,  one  that  even  the  holy  father  honours  for  his  art.  Do  you  not  think 
that  the  feelings  of  an  artist  are  different  from  those  of  other  men?  Do  you  imagine  that 
his  ideas  flow  in  the  same  strain  with  yours  or  mine?  Would  you  judge  him  as  you  do 
those  simple-hearted  beings  whom  no  exalted  ideas,  no  powers  of  contemplation  mislead 
from  their  plain  career  of  life?    If  so,  you  act  with  gross  injustice  towards  him." 

"Those  simple-hearted  beings  will  inherit  the  kingdom  of  heaven,"  said  the  Pater 
Guardian,  who  was  more  struck  by  the  impressive  manner  in  which  she  addressed  him  than 
by  the  tenor  of  her  words,  and  a  doubt  crossed  his  mind  whether  he  was  altogether  justified 
in  pursuing  the  steps  he  had  taken. 

"What  would  yau  do,"  continued  the  mother  vehemently,  "were  you  to  paint  a  picture 
like  many  that  my  son  has  painted?" 

"I  paint?    I  cannot  paint." 

"But  if  it  shoiUd  so  happen  that  you  were  driven  to  it  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  by 
a  feeling  that  you  could  not  overcome?"" 

"Then  I  should  be  profoundly  thoughtful  and  heavy  at  heart — may  the  saints  protect 
me!  But,  madam,  I  see  you  are  seeking  excuses  for  your  son.  You  know  well  that  Bernardo 
is  not  in  the  same  position  that  I  am,  he  can  paint — paint  wonderfully." 

"Bernardo  paints  nothing  which  he  has  not  made  subject  to  his  comprehension!" 
answered  the  matron  with  a  certain  hauteur.  "This  is  the  cause  of  the  strutjgling  thoughts 
and  emotions  to  which  others,  unacquainted  with  the  art,  are  strangers.  If  my  son  has  an 
idea  which  he  would  like  to  delineate,  and  feels  that  he  has  not  the  jiower  to  carry  out  his 
design,  he  is  no  more  able  to  paint  it  than  you,  and  has  as  much  reason  to  be — as  you  your- 
self have  just  said — profoundly  thoughtful  and  heavy  at  heart  as  you." 

"Ah,  Signora,"'  said  the  pater,  "I  see  you  possess  the  imagination  of  an  artist,  although 
you  do  not  paint.  I  fervently  hope  that  our  brother  Bernardo  may  suffer  from  no  other 
earthly  ailing,  than  that  to  which  you  have  alluded.  But,  I  opine  that  his  stay  here  will  be 
no  more  conducive  to  his  recovery  than  were  he  amongst  his  brethren  in  the  cloister." 

"That  none  can  tell,"  replied  the  mother,  who  leant  back  in  her  chair,  almost  exhausted. 
"Leave  that  to  me — leave  me  to  explore  the  feelings  of  my  son's  heart;  and  I  promise  you 
that,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  Bernardo  shall  return,  and  kiss  the  hand  of  Monsignore 
Priore.    Let  this  suffice,  lose  no  time  and  waste  no  more  words  on  the  subject." 


THE    LUTE-PLAYER,    AFTER    BEEXAKDO    STROZZL  5 

"What  savest  thou?"  asked  the  guardian,  taking  and  pressing  the  painter's  hand 
heartily.  •'  I  will  inform  the  prior  of  what  1  have  just  heard,  and  I  am  sure  tliat  he  will  pa- 
tiently wait  for  a  short  time.  As  fixr  as  I  am  concerned,  I  sincerely  wish  that  thy  deep 
thoughts  and  perceptions  had  so  operated,  that  thou  hadst  remained  as  thou  wert  formerly." 

Pater  Filippo,  having  left  his  blessing  with  the  old  woman,  respectfully  and  in  a 
kindly  manner  took  his  leave. 

As  he  was  about  to  retire  through  the  door  of  the  room,  he  was  met  by  a  voimg  girl 
with  a  burning  lamp  in  her  hand:  she  entered,  and  placed  the  lamp  upon  the  table.  She 
was  tall  and  somewhat  robust,  well  favoured  by  nature,  and  had  a  comely  and  regular  cast 
of  features.  Her  coimtenance  was  grave,  approaching  sternness,  and,  ■with  her  sparkling 
black  ej-es,  she  cast  an  angry  look  on  the  pater.  The  eye  of  the  old  Capuchin  was  directed,  with 
the  quickness  of  lightning,  to  Bernardo,  who  sat  mute  in  the  recess  of  the  window,  in  order 
to  observe  the  effect  which  the  presence  of  the  dark  haired  maiden  might  produce  upon  him. 
His  air  and  mamier,  however,  remained  unchanged,  betraying  not  that  suppressed  emotion 
usually  caused  by  the  flying  glance  of  lovers,  which,  like  an  electric  spark,  conveys  the  feel- 
ings of  one  heart  to  another. 

"The  secret  lies  not  here,"  muttered  the  pater  to  himself,  "although  there  may  be 
something  besides  that  which  his  mother  discovered  to  me. — I  do  not  think  my  daughter," 
said  he,  continuing  aloud  the  course  of  his  thoughts,  and  addressing  the  maiden,  "that  I  have 
ever  seen  you  before." 

"Nor  do  I,  mi  Padre T  was  the  laconic  reply. 

"She  is  Gianna,  my  sister's  daughter,  who  is  come  from  Sistri  di  Levante  to  nurse 
me,'"  said  the  mother  of  Bernardo. 

Gianna  received  the  blessing  of  the  pater,  ^\•ho  departed.  The  girl  appeared  to  re- 
flect for  a  moment,  and  then  she  followed  him. 

''Mi  Padrer  said  she,  overtaking  him  before  he  had  time  to  walk  many,  paces  through 
the  little  passage.  "Tell  me,  are  you  not  come  to  fetch  my  cousin  Bernardo  back  to  the 
cloister?" 

"Why  dost  thou  ask,  Gianna?    Thou  surely  hast  not  been  listening!" 

Gianna,  for  the  want  of  a  ready  answer,  and  in  order  to  do  something,  ran  her  fingers 
down  to  the  corner  of  her  apron  and  pretended  to  wipe  the  perspiration  from  her  forehead. 

"Pardon  me,  you  suspect  me  unjustly.  I  merely  desired  to  ask  what  would  be  the 
consequence  if  Bernardo" — her  voice  faltered  at  the  mention  of  that  name — ''icill  not  return 
to  the  cloister?" 

"Ma  figliuola,  thou  art  inquisitive!  But  it  may  be  well  thou  should'st  know  that 
Bernardo  has  devoted  his  mind  to  sinfid  things.  Take  thou  care  that  the  greatest  sin  lie  not 
at  thy  door.    St.  Geronimo  protect  thee!" 

When  Signora  Benvenuta  had  partially  recovered  from  the  excitement  caused  by  the 
visit  of  the  pater,  and  beheld  her  son  sitting  in  that  state  of  dejection,  as  though  all  his 
earthly  hopes  were  destroyed,  she  thus  addressed  him: 

"My  dearest  child!  1  am  indeed  suffering — I  am  ill,  but  thy  disease  infinitely  more 
requires  the  aid  of  a  physician  than  mine.  Thou  hast  that  in  thine  heart  which  thou  can'st 
not  eradicate  without  suffering.  Is  thy  mind  bent  so  solely  on  thy  art  that  thou  art  thus 
tormented?  May  the  holy  virgin,  whose  form  thou  hast  endeavoured  to  portray,  guide  thee!  Xo 


6  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

prayer  will  she  more  readily  grant  than  that — snpplicating  for  wisdom  and  understanding, 
together  with  a  pious,  humble,  and  obedient  heart,  as  the  greatest  of  all  blessings  that  can 
be  bestowed  upon  us  mortals  in  this  our  earthly  career.  I  know  nothing  of  the  art,  further 
than  that  it  is  cheerful,  peaceful,  and  sublime,  and  all  this  vexatious  opposition  brought 
against  it  is  a  fallacy — the  art  itself  is  not  to  be  condemned,  but  the  vicious  purposes  to 
which  some  of  its  base  followers  apply  it.  When  I  am  dead,  Bernardo,  forsake  not  thy 
cloister  to  paint  in  the  houses  of  the  rich,  as  thou  wast  wont  to  do.  Thou  wduldst  thereby  he 
sowing  the  seeds  of  corruption  in  thy  cell,  and,  if  some  are  already  sprung  up  in  thine  heart, 
hasten  to  leave  me,  confess  thy  sinful  thoughts — go  lock  thyself  within  those  sacred 
walls.  To  me,  this  would  be  a  greater  consolation  on- my  death-lied  than  to  know  that  thou, 
with  the  germs  of  evil  in  thy  breast,  art  standing  over  me,  awaiting  the  release  of  my  soul 
from  this  poor  shattered  frame  of  mine — to  know  that  thou  art  keeping  thyself  in  readiness 
to  seek  happiness  which  heaven  has  not  allotted."  ^ 

"Ah!  it  was  allotted  to  me — it  was — "  sighed  the  monk,  "I  have  long  forsworn  that 
happiness  the  existence  of  which  I  knew  not  was  preparing  for  me  on  earth." 

"Thou  lovest,  unhappy  youth!"  muttered  the  old  woman "despair  is  working 

in  thy  soul.  Take  corn-age,  i-eturn  to-morrow — nay — this  evening,  to  thy  cloister — purge  thy  con- 
science of  that  perilous  weight  upon  it,  confess  thyself  that  thou  may'st  be  restored.    Consult 

thy  worthy  prior — it  might  be  well there  exists  a  power  in  Rome,  by  the  interposition 

of  which  thy  vow  may  be  cancelled,  and " 

Bernardo  sprang  upon  his  feet  and  stood  for  some  moments  with  his  hand  before 
his  eyes,  like  one  released  from  a  dungeon  and  suddenly  brought  into  the  rays  of  the  sun; 
so  powerfully  had  the  words  of  his  pious  mother  operated  upon  his  mind. 

Before  he  had  sufficiently  collected  himself  to  reply,  a  knock  was  heard  at  the  door 
which,  on  being  opened,  introduced  a  tall,  handsome  cavalier,  elegantly  accoutred,  with  a  hat 
and  feathers,  and  a  dagger  set  in  brilliants  at  his  side.  Advancing  towards  tHe  pale  and  haggard 
monk,  he  in  a  familiar,  sympathising  tone,  enquired  after  the  state  of  the  patient.  The  old 
woman,  clasping  her  now  nearly  transparent  looking  hands,  made  a  sign  to  heaven. 

"O,"  said  the  cavalier  mildly,  "we  will  not  yet  speak  of  that,  Signora.  Who,  in  Ge- 
noa, that  admires  la  Superba  can  find  time  to  think  of  death?" 

"Time  must  be  found  to  reflect  on  death.  Sir  Count,"  smiled  the  matron,  slowly 
nodding  her  head. 

"At  the  proper  time,  of  course,  Signora  Strozzi!  Though,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is 
better  to  delay  all  such  considerations  till  the  very  last.  This  fine  spring  weather  is  cheering, 
and  inviting,  and  per  Bacco!  we  will  avail  ourselves  of  it.  You  may  venture  out  with  the 
greatest  assurance,  Signora,  for,  believe  me,  the  sight  of  your  son's  beautiful  fresco  paintings 
in  the  Palazzo  Brignola,  and  in  the  Palazzo  Centurioni,  will  amply  compensate  you  for  a 
slight  catarrh." 

When  the  cavalier  mentioned  the  word  Centurioni,  Bernardo's  countenance  appeared 
paler  than  usual. 

"Why,  how  now!  art  frightened,  Maestro  Preie?"  exclaimed  the  count,  clapping  the 
monk  on  the  shoulder.  "Does  your  conscience  prick  you?  Are  my  pictures  not  yet  finished? 
Depend  upon  it,  rni  Padre,  I  shall  not  fail  to  call  you  to  account  this  evening  for  this.  It  is 
no  trifle  to  be  accused  of  negligence  by  a  beautiful  bride." 


THE   LUTE-PLAYER,    AFTER    BERNARDO    STKOZZI.  7 

"Has  the  Signora  Camilla — I  mean  the  intended  bride  of  the  Count  d'Althan — uttered 
complaints  against  me?"  enquired  the  Capuchin  in  an  elevated  tone. 

"AVhat  ails  you,  Master  Pittore?  You  seem  to  be  ill  too — your  eyes  glow  as  if  you 
were  in  a  fever.  But — to  answer  your  question — I  flatter  myself  that  the  Signora  Camilla 
longs  for  my  picture.  But,  touching  the  picture  of  the  Madonna  for  which  my  future  liride 
sat  to  you,  I  can  positivelj'  assure  you  that  my  noble  father-in-law  in  fpe,  Frospero  Ccntu- 
rioni,  has  fiiithfully  promised  the  Dominicans  to  place  the  picture  over  his  family  scat,  in 
the  San-Siro-Cattedrale  on  the  day  of  the  Annunciation.  Let  me  see  the  pictures.  Maestro 
Prete  I 

The  monk,  almost  mechanically,  obeyed.  He  went  into  an  adjoining  room,  and  re- 
turned with  a  picture,  rather,  more  than  two  feet  in  height,  which  he  set  on  the  table,  holding 
it  at  the  same  time  firmly  near  the  lamp-shade.  The  matron  motioned  mildly  that  he  might 
place  the  picture  in  such  a  position  near  the  lamp  that  she  might  have,  the  gratification  to 
admire  the  work. 

The  picture  was  a  correct  portrait  of  the  Count  Carlo  d'Althan.  He  is  represented 
tuning  his  lute,  of  which  instrument  he  was  quite  master,  and,  "  with  eyes  upraised  as  one  in- 
spired," seemed  to  be  contemplating  a  theme  for  his  Improvisation. 

" E.Tcelknle!"  ejacidated  the  count.  "But,  Master,  I  requested  you  several  times  not  to 
paint  the  eyes  looking  up,  but  directly  in  the  face  of  the  spectator.'" 

"The  picture,  owing  to  the  simplicity  of  the  subject,  would  not,  had  I  painted  them 
otherwise,  have  exhibited  any  discernible  frame  of  mind.  You  would  have  been  represented 
tuning  your  instrument,  and  that  alone,  without  some  collateral  sentiment,  would  have  rendered 
the  picture  too  insipid.  Ymi  cannot  complain  that  I  have  thrown  no  soul  into  your  portrait." 
The  last  sentence  Bernardo  delivered  in  a  somewhat  ironical  tone.  "I  am  s.atisfied,'" 
said  the  count  after  a  short  meditation.  "You  are  a  monk,  and  would  not  comprehend  my 
meaning,  even  were  I  to  explain  to  you  why,  as  it  is  intended  for  the  cabinet  of  my  be- 
trothed, the  eyes  should  return  her  look — however,  shew  me  the  other  picture." 

"It  is  not  yet  so  far  advanced  that  I  can  allow  it  to  be  seen,"  answered  Bernardo 
gloomily. 

"I  prav  you,  Master!  Or  fear  you,  that  you  cannot  do  justice  to  her  beauty?  Her 
beauty  is  indeed  inimitable!" 

"You  have  spoken  the  truth!"  exclaimed  the  painter — it  is  beyond  all  the  power  of  art 
to  portray.    Resign  the  picture;  I  shall  never  let  it  go  out  of  my  hands." 

"Then  I  am  to  understand  the  portrait  is  not  successful,"  said  the  count,  sorely  dis- 
appointed.—"This,  after  seeing  your  Madonna,  I  could  not  have  anticipated.  I  will  by  no 
means  press  you,  but  regret  having  troubled  you  to  no  purpose.    Prospero  Centui'ioni  was 

right  in  insisting  on  the  portrait  of  Signora  Camilla  being  painted  by  Carlone  instead  of " 

"Carlone!"  exclaimed  the  young  monk,  while  a  glow  of  scarlet  spread  over  his  face, 
and  his  breast  heaved  with  all  the  pride  of  an  artist.  "Carlone  undertake  what  I  dare  not  at- 
tempt! He,  with  his  pictures  containing  all  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,—  he  express  what 
I  feel!" 

He  absented  himself  for  a  few  moments  and  returned,  bringing  with  him  a  picture  of 
considei-able  dimensions  which,  as  if  re-animated  by  the  consciousness  of  his  powers,  he 
placed  before  the  view  of  the  count.     An  expression  of  surprise  and  admiration  escaped  from 


g  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

the  lips  of  the  cavalier.  The  picture  represented  a  Madonna  of  extraordinary  beauty,  the 
coiuitenance  noble,  but  moui-nful :  on  her  knee  she  held  the  charmingly  beautiful  infant  Jesus. 
In  her  bosom  was  a  bright  swoi-d.  It  was  not  an  ideal  perception  of  a  Eaphael,  but  a  mild, 
chaste  being,  a  lovely  daughter  of  mother  earth.  Powerful  was  the  impression  ■\vliich  the  pic- 
ture made  on  those  who  deeply  contemplated  it. 

The  old  matron  folded  her  hands  and  whispered — Gianna  had  softly  entered  the 
room,  and,  while  repeating  her  Ave  Maria!,  fixed  her  sparkling  eyes,  immoveably,  on  the 
brilliant,  almost  bewitching  picture  before  her. 

"That  is  Camilla  Centurioni!"  exclaimed  the  count  in  a  stifled  voice.  "That  is  she, 
with  all  her  high,  reserved,  and  poetical  spirit — and — you  told  me  you  were  not  able  to  paint 
CamiUa!" 

The  Count  d'Althan  looked  at  the  painter  with  astonishment,  but  it  never  occurred  to 
him  that  the  deep  emotion  with  which  the  Capuchin  looked  on  his  picture  emanated 
from  any  other  feeling  than  that  of  love  for  his  art.  He  observed  that  Bernardo  was  in  too 
agitated  a  state  of  mind  for  him  to  come  to  an  arrangement  as  to  the  delivery  of  the  picture;  he 
therefore  delayed  this  to  a  future  day.  He  was  too  much  a  man  of  the  world  to  exult 
over  the  painful  emotions  of  one  so  highly  gifted,  so,  leaving  the  painter  to  his  meditations, 
he  retired. 

Bernardo  carried  his  picture  away  again.  Signora  Benvenuta  smilingly  fixed  her 
gaze  on  the  spot  where  the  picture  had  stood.  Her  son,  obser\'ing  her  uninterrupted  stillness, 
was  struck  with  a  sudden  misgiving,  and,  seizing  a  lamp,  he  rushed  to  her  bedside,  and  holding 
the  lamp  over  her  face,  discovered  that — she  was  dead. 

After  the  first  jjaroxysm  of  grief  had  subsided,  he  locked  %iniself  up  in  his  room,  and 
spent  the  night,  on  his  knees,  before  the  picture  of  the  Madonna. 

On  the  following  morning  he  appeared  serious,  with  a  pleasing  expression  of  counte- 
nance, and  a  mien  more  resolute  than  was  usual  with  him.  He  handed  to  Gianna  a  letter 
addressed  to  the  Signora  Camilla  Centurioni,  directing  her  to  deliver  it  with  the  greatest 
despatch.  Gianna  was  beset  by  a  thousand  feelings  of  jealousy,  and,  after  changing  her  mind 
as  many  times  on  the  road,  she  ultimately  decided  to  repair  to  the  Palazzo  Centin-ioni.  She 
was  met  by  Camilla — the  sublime  Madonna  of  Bernardo  stood  before  the  impassioned  girl. 
As  though  deprived  of  her  reason  at  the  sight  of  this  beauty,  Gianna  turned  round  and  fled 
with  all  haste  to  the  Capuchin  cloister,  at  the  gate  of  which  she  presented  Bernardo's  letter 
into  the  hands  of  father  Filippo. 

In  an  hoiu'  from  this  time  the  monk,  who  had  cherished  the  hope  of  an  elopement 
with  the  affianced  bride  of  the  count,  was  conducted  as  a  prisoner  to  the  cloister,  where,  for 
his  stubbornness  and  refractory  behaviour,  he  was  thrown  into  prison,  there  to  expiate  his  guilt. 
He  was  permitted  to  paint;  produced,  however,  but  little,  and  that  in  a  manner  which  in  its 
power,  strong  contrast,  and  singular  style  of  colouring,  reflected  the  gloomy  sensations  of  his 
heart.    He  painted  in  the  style,  without  being  a  pupil,  of  Caravaggio. 

Not  till  nearly  three  years  had  elapsed  did  he  succeed  in  making  his  escape  from  the 
cloister,  and  this  was  effected  through  the  traitress  Gianna,  who,  inconsolable  for  the  act  she 
had  committed,  and  in  order  to  make  some  atonement,  disguised  herself  as  a  lay  brother,  and  so 
assisted  him  in  his  flight.    Thence  he  fled  to  Venice,  where  he  enjoyed  a  high  reputation  as 


PIETEK    DE    HOOGHE    IN    HIS    STUDY. 


a  painter,  and  dietl  1644,  in  the  sixty  third  year  of  his  age.    The  lovely  Camilla  Ccnturioni, 
instead  of  being  united  to  the  Count  d'Althan,  took  the  veil,  and  died  long  before  Bernardo. 
Bernardo's  tombstone,  in  San  Fosco   at  Venice,  is  still  to  be  seen.    It  bears  the  in- 
scription: Bern.  Stvozzius,  piciorum  spkiidor,  Ligurice  decus! 


DE  IIOOGIIE  IN  HIS  STUDY. 

AFTER  A  PICTURE  BY 
PIETER  DE  HOOGHE,  HIMSELF. 


There  exists  jjerhaps  no  nation  in  the  civilized  world  whose  manners  and  customs,  in  the 
various  phases  of  domestic  hfe,  have  been  so  frequently  represented  by  the  hand  of  the  painter 
as  the  inliabitants  of  the  Netherlands.  With  what  pler/sure  and  satisfaction  do  we  view  those  de- 
lightful cabinet  pictures — the  master-pieces  of  those  painters  who  ilourished  in  the  seventeenth 
century! — So  numerous  are  these  pictures  and  of  such  uniform  tendency,  the  subjects  so  si- 
milar to  each  other,  that  the  peculiar  characteristics  of  the  different  artists  would  scarcely  be 
perceptible  to  any  eye  but  that  of  the  connoissem-.  The  works  of  those  masters  which  bear 
the  most  striking  resemblance  to  each  other,  in  point  of  execution  and  finish,  are  the  do- 
mestic scenes  by  Terburg  and  Mieris,  Dow  and  ]\Ietsu,  Slingeland  and  Netscher.  The  sharp 
and  practised  eye,  however,  of  the  "initiated"  will  discern,  at  a  glance,  a  difference 
in  the  treatment,  although  precisely  the  same  subject  be  chosen  by  either  of  the  painters 
whose  names  stand  in  conjunction.  The  remarkable  chasteness,  distinctness,  and  precision 
with  which  these  masters  worked  up  their  detail  usually  escape  the  notice  of  the  casual  ob- 
server, who,  more  liable  to  be  attracted  by  those  compositions  ^vhich  display  overwrought 
effects  of  light  and  shade,  is  apt  to  consider  the  Dutch  school  as  somewhat  too  monotonous, 
while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  real  lover  of  art  will  discover  an  infinite  variety  in  their  con- 
ceptions, in  the  simplicity,  energy,  and  purity  of  their  designs— their  portraits  of  nature. 

Pietcr  de  Hooghe  was  one  of  the  most  celebrated  painters  in  miniatin-e  of  that  period. 
Were  we  called  upon  to  assign  him  a  rank  amongst  his  immortal  cotemporaries  we  should 
unhesitatingly  compare  him  with  Gabriel  Motsu  and  Adrian  van  Ostade;  for,  like  Metsu, 
his  compositions  are  in  all  respects  simple,  his  figures,— though  skillfully  introduced  and  judi- 
ciously grouped— are  not  adapted  to  excite  any  particular  interest;  and,  like  Ostade, 
dc  Hooghe  displays  his  feeling  for  the  poetical  and  the  picturesque  in  the  arrangement 
and  situation  of  the  figures,  which  give  a  certain  degree  of  life  to  the  composition  and  en- 
hance the  effect  of  the  pictm-e. 

In  the  productions  of  Pieter  de  Hooghe  we  invariably  find,  as  we  have  already  no- 
ticed, picturesque  arrangement,  while  in  those  of  all  other  painters  of  this  class— if  we  except 
Ostade,  who  does  not  exactly  belong  to  it— we  perceive  a  most  elaborate  copy  of  reahty,  of 
natural  effect  of  light,  brought  in  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  get  over  the  difficulty  they 
brought  upon  themselves  by  the  ill-judged  situation  allotted  to  their  figures.  Dow  and  Ter- 
burgC  and  indeed  many  others,  resorted  to  the  expedient  of  introducing  drapery,  but  so  mob- 

G.alleries  of  Vienn,i. 


l(j  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

tmsively,  and  with  such   consuniniate   skill,  that   it   seems   to   supply  a  medium,    absolutely 
giving  weight  to  the  subject  without  interfering  witli  the  general  tenor  of  the  piece. 

The  chief  feature  in  De  Hooghe's  works  is  the  standard  rule  of  perspective  w^hich 
governed  all  his  operations.  For  this  excellency  he  is  indel>tcd  to  his  master,  Berghem,  who, 
after  Wouwerman,  stands  pre-eminent  for  his  skill  in  picturesque  delineation. 

De  Hooghe's  powers  in  this  I'espect  are  almost  unrivalled,  and,  where  he  dis- 
perses the  sun's  rays  over  his  subject,  the  effect  -produced  is  tridy  magical.  The  en- 
graving which  accompanies  the  present  article  is  taken  from  the  picture  by  De  Hooghe 
in  the  Czernin  Gallery.  This  picture  is  about  three  feet  in  height,  and  represents  the  artist, 
seated  in  his  study,  painting  a  full  length  figure  of  a  young  damsed.  The  beholder  at  once 
finds  himself  standing  immediately  behind  the  painter,  and  feels  an  almost  irresistible 
impulse  to  tap  him  on  the  shoulder,  or  to  enquire  of  the  maiden  what  allegorical 
figure  she  stands  there  to  represent,  and  whether  the  wreath  of  laurel  leaves,  or  the  in- 
strument and  music  book  she  holds  in  her  hands,  are  the  usual  appendage  of  a 
simple  Dutch  girl.  The  truth,  the  life-like  reality  displayed  throughout  this  chef-d'oeuvre 
of  our  painter — and  further,  if  our  eye  rests  on  one  little  spot  of  parquet  work  between  the 
feet  of  the  master — renders  the  delusion  so  intense  that  we  may  easily  imagine  ourselves  really 
standing  on  the  same  floor  with  him.  We  retire  on  tiptoe,  fearing  that  our  footfall  may 
distract  the  attention  of  the  artist  irom  the  interesting  subject  on  which  he  is  employed,  and 
expect  he  will  turn  round  and  reprove  us  for  the  annoyance  we  have  occasioned  him. 

We  are  not  acquainted  with  any  work  of  art  where  the  rays  of  the  sun  act  so  power- 
fully without  the  addition  of  landscape  scenery,  or  some  moving  cause  that  produces  as 
powerful  an  effect  upon  our  senses,  as  in  this  piece  of — not  scorching  but  warm — sunlight  in 
this  master-piece  of  De  Hooghe's.  It  is  the  very  perfection  of  imitation,  and,  if  this  picture 
be  not  considered  as  belonging  to  the  highest  class  of  art,  it,  at  least,  displays  genius  of  the 
rarest  character,  and  has  never  been  surpassed  by  any  painter  of  this  or  any  other  period. 

If  we  compare  a  work  of  Metsu's  Avith  one  of  De  Hooghe's  we  always  find  that  the 
former  kept  his  figures  subdued,  and  that  he  introduced  almost  an  exuberance  of  character- 
istic detail,  so  finely  and  delicately  delineated  that,  until  we  really  enter  into  a  close  exami- 
nation, the  chances  are  we  should  wholly  overlook  them.  In  the  soft,  beaming  eyes  of  his 
figures  we  discover  an  arch,  roguish  expression;  the  conventional  smile  on  the  countenance  of 
each  does  not  deteriorate  from  their  individuality,  and  although  a  striking  family  likeness  per- 
vades the  whole  party,  yet,  when  carefully  looked  into,  every  face  bears  a  character  essen- 
tially peculiar  to  itself.  Metsu's  figures  may  be  said  to  have  a  more  extended  peculiarity  of 
character  than  the  painter  himself  intended  to  furnish  them  with,  whereas  the  figures  of 
De  Hooghe  leave  nothing  for  the  imagination:  they  have  a  certain  substantiaUty,  but  no  se- 
perate  interest;  are  carefully  drawn,  interfere  in  no  measure  with  his  brilliant  sunlight  effects, 
— they  are  placed  there  to  serve  a  cei'tain  end,  — the  displaying  of  light — and  that  end  is 
fully  accomplished. 

In  all  the  pictures  of  this  master  we  find  correct  drawing,  the  heads  and  hands  carefully 
and  delicately  modelled;  and  especially  in  this  of  which  our  pen  treats,  the  rich  broad  colouring, 
the  gradation  from  light  into  deep  dark  shades,  and  the  charming  effect  of  the  whole  presents  a 
degree  of  immateriality  not  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  any  of  his  Dutch  cotemporaries. 

De  Hooghe  was  not  very  prolific,  and,  although  his  minutia;  were  not  worked  up  in 


PARK  WITH  POULTRY,  AFTER  MELCHIOR  HONDEKOETER.  1  J 

such  a  finished  manner  as  eitlier  by  Metsii  or  Dow,  his  pictures,  independently  of  those  beauties 
in  which  he  took  the  lead,  bear  a  very  high  value.  The  following  is  a  list  of  his  chief  pro- 
ductions, viz.:  "A  Woman  Reading'',  in  the  Pinakothck  in  iSIunich;  "A  Card  Party",  and 
"Two  Women  cleaning  a  Room",  in  the  Louvre;  and  others  in  the  collections  of  Sir  R.  Peel 
in  London,  and  Count  Pourtales  in  Paris. 

The  picture  of  "De  Ilooghe  in  liis  Study",  painted  in  the  belt  days  of  this  master, 
(about  the  year  1676J  is  undoubtedly  the  finest  specimen  of  art  from  his  easel. 


PARK  WITH  POULTRY. 

AFTER 
MELCHIOR  HONDEKOETER. 


The  portrayal  of  inferior  objects  in  nature,  though  less  adapted  to  exalt  the  mind,  or 
engage  the  senses,  than  those  charms  diffused  throughout  the  classic  walks  of  art,  may,  never- 
theless, be  useful  and  instructive  in  its  way,  and  at  all  times  succeeds  in  attracting  the  at- 
tention, and  indeed  the  admiration,  of  "the  many." 

A  pair  of  snufters — we  hope  to  be  pardoned  for  bringing  so  undignified  an  instrument 
to  our  aid,  but  it  answers  our  pui'pose — a  pair  of  snuffers,  then,  lying  open  upon  a  table,  may 
be  as  difficult  to  draw  correctly  as  the  form  of  the  human  face;  or  the  rcjiresentation  of 
light  produced  by  glittering  candelabra  may  jjossibly  be  more  difficult  to  transfer  to  canvas 
than  even  the  transient  splendour  of  the  setting  sun. 

AVe  compare  the  creations  of  nature  according  to  the  degree  with  which  mind  ap- 
pears more  or  less  connected  with  them.  Those  pictures  which,  besides  being  correct  copies 
of  nature,  not  only  please  the  eye  but  excite  also  the  imagination;  those  scenes  where  the 
master-hand  iias  judiciously  discriminated  between  the  beauties  and  the  deformities  of  nature 
— where  every  feature  is  delineated  in  its  most  graceful  and  fascinating  liglit — such  an 
embodiment,  no  matter  what  the  subject  chosen,  certainly  constitutes  a  work  of  art — such 
productions  will  always  maintain  their  worth  and  vie  even  with  those  of  an  acknowledged 
higher  order  of  art. 

The  primary  object  of  the  skillful  artist  is — while  observing  the  established  and  re- 
cognised principles  of  his  art — to  render  all  objects  of  which  he  may  avail  himself  of  a  certain 
degree  of  importance — each  object  harmonising  or  contrasting  with  the  other  as  the  spirit  of  the 
subject  may  recjuire, — and  so  to  combine  the  real  of  every  day  life  with  the  ideal  dignity  of 
art.  This  disposition  in  works  of  an  intellectual  character  forms  a  secondary  motive,  by  ap- 
pealing to  and  rousing  the  imagination  of  the  beholder. 

An   efect  may  be   produced  without  the    introduction  of  either  the  human  figure  or 

animal  life.  Dormant  nature,  down  to  the  simple  structures  raised  by  the  hand  of  man,  may, 

according  to  the  art  used  in  the  representation,  convey  to  our  minds  the  intellectual  aspirations 

of  the    painter.     We   view   the   work   not    for   itself,  but    admire  its  intellectual    and  social 

2  * 


12  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

properties;  not  necessarily  connected  with  it,  but  with  which  the  imagination  can  imbue  it. 
The  landscape  painter  is  properly  licensed  to  indulge  his  fancy,  or  creative  power,  to  the 
same  extent  as  that  exercised  by  the  master  who  illustrates  great  and  important  events  in 
history;  and  the  painters  of  animals  and  "still  life",  pursuing  the  same  course  of  reflection 
and  study,  are  justly  entitled  to  rank  with  those  painters  who  take  a  more  exalted  range 
.and  figure  only  in  the'romantic  and  the  ideal. 

We  as  much  admire  the  cxc[uisite  arrangement  of  "A  kitchen  by  Kalf "  as  anything  in 
the  pictures  of  Adrian  van  Ostade  or  Paul  Rubens,  and  find  equal  delight  in  studying  the 
brilliant  and  inimitable  colours  in  the  flower  pieces  of  Huysum  and  Monnoyer  as  in  the  great 
works  of  Tizian  and  Rembrandt.  The  same  great  rules  of  art  are  as  perceptible  in  the 
half  ludicrous — we  will  call  them  caricatures — of  Peter  von  Laar  and  Karel  du  Jardin  as  in 
the  conceptions  of  Correggio  and  Giorgione,  and  the  harmony  of  the  local  tones  and  half  tints, 
together  with  the  animation  and  action  in  tiie  best  pictures  of  Tintoretto,  are  not  grander 
than  those  displayed  in  the  "poultry  yards"  and  "parks  with  birds"  of  Melchior  Hondc- 
koeter.  We  are  not  the  less  able  to  admire  a  picture  of  Potter  after  feasting  our  senses 
on  one  of  the  master-pieces  of  Raphael,  and,  even  after  being  charmed  by  the  pomji  and 
splendour  of  a  Paul  Veronese,  may  find  pleasure  in  the  works  of  Ilondekoeter. 

In  this  view  of  the  subject,  it  is  easily  explained  why  the  pictures  of  those  masters,, 
who  chose  the  most  common  materials  upon  which  to  exhibit  their  genius,  should  still  main- 
tain their  great  ^alue,  and  we  venture  to  think  that  few  who  know  anything  of  art  will 
entertain  the  opinion  of  Hondekoeter's  termagant  wife,  viz.  that  such  things  are  not  ^^•orth  the 
trouble  of  painting,  when  a  real  poultry  yard,  fowls  and  all  together,  might  be  purchased  for 
the  same  money  that  is  paid  for  one  of  these  pictures. 

Melchior  Hondekoeter,  who  belonged  to  a  celebrated  family  of  Dutch  painters,  was 
born  at  Utrecht  in  the  year  1G36,  and  was  the  most  distinguished  painter  of  living  birds. 
In  the  representation  of  "still  life",  as  fiir  as  concerns  breadth  of  colour  and  management  of 
tone,  his  uncle  Weenix,  whose  pujiil  he  was,  surpassed  him.  The  extraordinary  truth  widi 
Avhich  Ilondekoeter  so  well  understood  to  render  the  finest  variety  of  feathers  almost 
amounts  to  a  delusion.  His  jioultry  yards  are  cheerful,  quiet,  and  brilliant,  and  were  always 
eagerly  sought,  as  perfect  cabinet  pieces.  The  painter  himself  received  such  humble  prices 
as  by  no  means  satisfied  the  avarice  of  his  spouse.  Vexed  and  disheartened  by  the  oppression 
of  his  inexorable  wife,  the  tender  hearted  painter  fell  into  a  loose  course  of  life  which  ulti- 
mately brought  him  to  the  grave.    He  died  in  the  year  1695. 


JOHN  THE  BAPTIST  IN  THE  WILDERNESS. 


AFTEK 
CLAUDE  LOREAIN. 


In  the  old  and  wealthy  town  of  Nancy,  the  capital  of  Lorraine  and  Burgundy,  was 
heard  the  loud  pealing  of  bells,  which  re\erberated  solemnly  beyond  its  ponderous  walls  and 
ramparts,  spreading  harmonious  echoes  over  the  cheerful  spring  landscape  by  ^vhich  it  was 


1 


1 


1^ 


1 


I 

\ 


^1 


1 


^1 


^ 


•K 


JOim  THE  BAPTIST  IN  THE  WILDERNESS,  AFTER  CLAUDE  LORRAIN.  13 

environed.  Tlie  variegated  and  superbly  ornamented  turrets  and  spires,  renderetl  more  glisten- 
ing by  the  dazzling  rays  of  the  morning  sun;  the  stately  high-gabled  houses  of  the  bur- 
gesses, on  the  fronts  of  which  the  good  people,  piously  following  the  custom  of  the  time, 
never  failed  to  have  passages  from  Scripture  elaborately  worked  in  bas-relief;  and  the  pro- 
jecting windows  on  all  sides,  with  bases  beautifully  chiseled  by  the  sculptor's  ai't,  looked 
more  like  a  row  of  little  sacristies,  or  lurking  places,  filled  with  figures  which  seemed  to 
be  there  to  give  a  friendly  greeting  to  the  holiday-dresed  folks  who  were  thronging  into  the 
city.  These  little  projecting  stales  or  windows,  as  well  as  the  door-ways  to  the  houses,  were 
all  bedecked  with  sweet-scented  ^lay  branches — the  fresh  bloming  flowers  of  spring — to  ce- 
lebrate the  "feast  of  the  Holy  Ghost".  The  church-goers,  all — old  men  and  matrons,  young  men 
and  maidens,  and  even  little  children,  whose  little  innocent  tongues  were  scarcely  able  to  lisp 
the  "Paternoster", — were  trudging  along, with  their  prayer  books  and  nosegays  in  their  hands, 
with  devout  serenity  in  their  countenances;  for  here,  on  this  side  of  the  Rhine,  peace  and 
plenty  reigned  in  the  dominions  of  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  while,  on  the  other  side,  in  the 
states  of  tlie  'Roman'  empire,  tlie  peojile  were  full  of  fear  and  treml)ling,  and  awaiting  with 
anxiety  the  termination  of  the  war  which  was  raging  with  terrible  and  mcreasing  horrors 
in   the  eventfid  year  1625. 

Amongst  the  holiday  folks  appeared  one  who  seemed  wrapped  up  in  his  own  thoughts, 
but  who  ever  and  anon  cast  a  hopeful  glance  at  the  windows  of  the  houses.  He  was  a  young 
man,  and  his  exterior  left  no  doubt  as  to  his  being  a  stranger  in  the  place.  He  wore  a  broad- 
brimmed  straw  hat,  which  partly  concealed  the  most  luxurious  curly  locks  of  deep  auburn. 
Tlie  hat  itself  attracted  the  observation  of  the  throng,  from  its  shape  being  })eculiar,  and  si- 
milar to  that  worn  only  by  Henry  III.  in  warm  weather,  ^hen  taking  his  walk  round  the 
city.  This  was  the  only  mark  which  drew  forth  any  comparison  between  him  and  the  Duke, 
for,  in  other  respects,  his  dress  was  somewhat  anomalous,  and  bore  the  appearance  of  poverty. 
A  vehet  coat,  originally  green,  with  broad  sleeves  and  skirts  besmeared  with  innumerable 
spots,  en\eloped  his  manly  figure,  contrasting  singularly  with  the  light  blue  velvet  trowsers 
braided  to  tlie  knees  with  silken  cord.  The  worthy  citizens,  unaccustomed  to  the  sight  of  any 
other  than  dark  coloured  hose,  even  if  not  made  of  leather,  gazed  with  no  little  astonishment  at 
this  infringement  on  the  fashion.  The  silk  stockings,  too,  worn  by  the  stranger,  were  pro- 
nounced by  the  critical  eyes  of  the  good  matrons  to  be  faultless,  and,  if  the  rosettes  on  his 
shoes  had  not  been  in  shreds,  none  finer  nor  more  beautifully  ornamented  could  have  been 
found  in  all  Nancy.  ^^Hiat,  however,  most  attracted  the  curiosity  of  these  good  people  was 
the  costly  shoulder-l)elt,  from  which  was  suspended  a  handsome  Venetian  rapier,  which  at 
once  excited  contradictory  suppositions  amongst  the  church-goers,  but  left  no  doubt  in  the 
minds  of  those  competent  to  judge  in  such  matters,  that  this  singular  personage  could  be  no 
other  than  one  of  privileged  rank. 

Now,  in-  so  important  an  aflfair  as  this  seemed  to  be,  some  few,  more  ciuious  than  the 
rest,  determined  seriously  to  enter  upon  the  matter,  and  to  elicit  from  the  stranger  whence 
he  came  and  his  object  in  conjing  to  Nancy.  This  little  group  was  soon  joined  by  a  little 
fiery  looldng  man  of  about  fifty,  who  laughed  and  talked  very  loudly,  shewing  such  uncon- 
straint  in  his  behaviour  that  one  might  have  been  almost  justified  in  supposing  the  whole 
place  to  l)e  his  property.  The  person  who  took  so  prominent  a  part  in  the  proceedings  was 
exceedingly  well  dressed  and  wore  a  dagger  in  his  belt,  I:>ut  he  was  accompanied  by  another 


14 


THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 


person,  and  it  was  not  quite  clear  to  the  others  whether  the  latter  suffered  the  almost  coarse  jokes 
of  his  friend  from  the  circumstance  of  his  holding  a  higher  position  in  society  than  himself,  or 
whether  he  allowed  his  buffoonery  to  pass  unheeded  as  being  inconsonant   with  his  years. 

The  little  man  approached  the  stranger,  and  unceremoniously  tapped  him  on  the 
shoulder,  causmg  the  young  man  to  turn  rouod  and  to  fix  a  look  of  astonishment  upon  him. 

"Good  morning.  Sir,"  said  the  little  man,  with  a  tone  of  familiar  politeness,  offering  him 
his   white   hand.     "Allow  me  to  welcome  you  to   Nancy,  otherwise  you  might  wait  a  long 

time  for" He   eyed  the  yoimg  man  from  head   to  foot,   and    bm-st    out    into  loud 

laughter. 

The  stranger  knit  his  brows  and  enquired  with  menacing  mien,  "What  am  I  to  under- 
stand by  this  insulting  behaviour?" 

"If  this  old  velvet  coat  was  from  its  birth  your  property,  I  should  say,  from  the 
spots  of  oil-colour,  you  are  most  at  home  when  within  an  ell  of  the  easel:  you  are  a  painter, 
and  may  just  as  well  make  the  acquaintance  of  four  disinterested  brothers." 

The  serious  countenance  of  the  stranger  suddenly  brightened  u[),  when  one  after  the 
other  of  these  gentlemen  shook  him  by  the  hand  and  bade  him  welcome.  The  delight  of 
the  little  man  wlio  had  first  addressed  him  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  declared  they  would 
hold  a  sitting  in  the  town-collar,  in  order  that  they  might  become  better  acquainted  wit'i 
their  brother  artist  and  guest. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  the  young  man,  suffering  himself  to  be  slowly  dragged  along,  "lean 
accompany  you  on  one  condition  only.  Perhaps  you,"  turning  and  raising  his  hat  to  the 
eldest,  "are  Master  Claude  Ruet?  If  that  be  the  ease,  I  have  found  him  to  whom  I  wish, 
most  resjjectfully,  to  introduce  myself." 

"Ruet!"  cried  the  little  man;  "you  take  me  for  Ruet?  Come,  that's  a  good  one,  is  it 
not  Erard!" 

"Don't  bawl  so  loud",  replied  the  person  addressed,  a  pale,  fair,  interesting  looking 
young  man.   "We  are  not  ten  paces  from  Ruet's  house." 

"That's  all  the  same  to  me,"  was  the  rejoinder.  "Ruet  will  no  more  eat  me  than  he 
will  you,  and  I've  no  fear  of  a  frown  from  [Mademoiselle  Adrienne.  Here  brother,"  said  he 
to  the  guest,  "here  lives  Monsieur  Ruet,  there  is  his  state  equipage;  the  giant  on  the  box  is 
his  coachman,  and  that  girl  there,  in  the  corner  window,  is  his  davighter  Adrienne,  remark- 
able for  her  cold  heart." 

"Well,  that  is  better  than  to  let  it  boil  over,  as  some  do,"  said  the  pale  painter, to  one 
of  his  companions,  in  an  undertone. 

The  little  man  turned  very  red,  cast  a  mischievous  look  at  the  speaker,  and  turned  to 
tlie  stranger,  who  persisted  in  his  determination  that  he  must  speak  with  Ruet,  and  said : 

"Go  then,  friend,  but  promise,  on  your  word  of  honour,  to  return  to  the  wine  cellar. 
I  advise  you  by  all  means  to  address  Master  Ruet  as  Monsieur  le  Baron,  for  the  Duke  has 
raised  him  to  nobility — the  devil  knows  why! — But  what  is  your  name,  and  whence 
come  you?" 

"My  name  is  Claude  Gellee,  I  was  born  at  the  castle  of  Chamagne,  and  come  from 
Italy,"  replied  the  young  stranger,  and  he  hastily  ran  up  the  steps  leading  to  the  patrician's  house. 

"We're  just  as  wise  as  we  were  before,"  murmered  the  little  man. 

The  house,  or  rather  palace,  which  the  stranger  had  entered,  was  decorated  with  rather 


JOHN  TUE  BAPTIST  IX  THE  W  ILUERXESS,  Al'TEU  CLAIDE  LOKUAIX.  15 

red  looking  fresco  pictures,  and  tlie  floor  laid  in  with  mosaic  work  of  mnrhle.  He  had  pro- 
ceeded but  a  few  jiaces  when  lie  was  met  by  a  very  costly  apjjarelled  man,  who  he  had  no 
doubt  was  INIonsieur  Ruet  himself. 

The  ennobled  painter,  notwithstanding  that  he  had  seen  forty-six  summers,  mi"-ht  he 
considered  a  remarkably  fine  man.  Eiuglets  of  brown  hair  himg  richly  over  his  shoulders. 
Large  hazel  eyes  enlivened  his  very  regularly  formed  but  rather  thin  face,  which  was  cleanly 
shaved,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  tuft  of  light  brown  beard,  which,  with  the  animated  expres- 
sion of  his  countenance  and  ivory-white  teeth,  served  to  enhance  his  youtliful  appearance.  Master 
Ruet  was  tall,  and  small  I'ound  the  waist;  he  wore  a  blue  and  white  striped  dress,  embroi- 
dered with  the  most  costly  lace  from  the  Netherlands,  which  reached  down  to  his  soft, 
velvet  looking,  orange-coloured  boots;  round  his  neck  was  a  gold  chain  with  an  impending 
dagger,  the  hilt  of  which  was  elaborately  worked,  and  his  apjiearance  altogether  was  that 
of  a  cavalier. 

Claude  Gellee,  having  introduced  himself  to  this  great  personage,  apologized  for  his 
untimely  intrusion.  "I  would  not,  Monsieur  le  Bai-on,"  said  he,  "detain  you  one  minute  from 
j-our  religious  duties,  for  I  perceive  you  are  preparing  for  church,  but  that  I  would  lose  no 
time,  through  your  kindness,  to  secure  work  which  otherwise  might,  this  afternoon,  be  en- 
trusted to  the  hands  of  another.  If  it  be  your  intention  to  have  the  Carmelite  church 
painted  in  the  Italian  style,  like  that  you  have  seen  in  the  castle  of  Chamagne,  I  entreat 
you  to  bestow  a  portion  of  the  work  upon  me,  for  you  see  by  my  whole  appearance  that 
I  have  need  of  employment." 

"Your  long  journey  is  a  sufficient  excuse  for  the  disorder  of  your  dress,"  said  the 
Baron  with  patronising  condescension.  "I  believe  that  3'ou  would  soon  dress  as  I  require 
those  artists  who  work  under  my  direction,  were  it  possible  to  place  you  on  the  scaffolding 
in  the  Carmelite  church." 

"I  ha^e  never  troubled  myself  much  about  my  costume,"  returned  Claude  ingenuously, 
"but  in  Rome  I  was  always  so  dressed  that  my  master  Agostino  Tassi — one  of  the  richest, 
and  certainlj-  the  most  magnificent  painter  of  Rome,  and  associated  with  bishops  and  cardi- 
nals, and  whose  appointments  far  exceeded  yours — never  made  any  remai-k  on  my  out- 
ward appearance.  I  possessed  a  large  trunk  full  of  holiday  dresses,  and  had  saved  above  a 
hundred  and  fifty  zecchine:  but  these  have  fallen  into  the  clutches  of  the  rascally  robbers 
who  plundered  me  in  the  Black  Forest." 

Ruet  seemed  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  what  had  been  spoken  of  the  Roman 
painter. 

"What,  Agostino  Tassi!  He  lives  in  greater  splendour  than  I?  Allow  me  to  say 
that  is  impossible.  How  can  you  form  an  opinion?  You  have  not  seen  my  appointments. 
How  know  you  what  they  are?  Wait  till  I  have  led  you  through  mj'  saloons  and  cabinets, 
and — then  you  will  think  otherwisel" 

"Do  not  be  oflFended,  Monsieur  le  Baron,"  replied  Claude  naively. 

"Dieu  m'en  preserve!  Those  in  whom  I  take  an  interest,  and  who  mean  well,  may 
say  what  they  like;. the  time  is  sure  to  come  when  I  shall  be  able  to  convince  them  of  their 
error.  To  be  frank  with  you,  I  like  jou,  and  I,  being  the  first  in  my  profession  of  all  the 
country  about  here,  consider  it  my  duty  to  receive  you,  especiallj-  as  you  have  met  with  so 
serious  a  misfortune,  in  which  I  dare  say  your  life  was  in  jeopardy." 


16  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

"I  certainly  defended  myself  as  loug  as  I  possibly  could,"  replied  Claude  Gellee,  "till  I 
was  overpowered." 

"You  will  please  to  relate  to  me  the  whole  of  the  adventure,"  said  the  Baron,  con- 
fidentially, turning  round  to  give  his  servant  a  large  Spanish  cane,  and,  at  the  same  time, 
beckoning  to  the  young  painter  to  follow  him. 

"Pardon  me,  it  was  not  my  intention  to  detain  yoii  from  church,"  said  Claude,  almost 
overcome  by  the  kindness  of  the  master. 

"Do  not  mention  it;  I  am  on  as  intimate  terms  with  the  archbishop  of  Nancy  as 
Agostino  Tassi  with  the  Eoman  cardinals,"  ref)lied  Ruet  jestingly,  "and,  above  all  things, 
nothing  aftbrds  me  more  pleasure  than  to  hear  something  about  Naples  and  Gottfried  Wals, 
with  whom,  for  a  long  time,  I  have  kept  up  a  friendly  correspondence,  and — " 

"Gottfried  Wals,  of  Cologne,  was  my  master,"  interrupted  Claude. 

Ruet  uttered  an  exclamation  of  joyful  surprize,  and,  with  a  hearty  shake  of  the  hand, 
welcomed  the  young  painter.  They  had  now  reached  the  room  for  the  reception  of 
strangers. 

Claude  Gellee  was  invited  to  take  a  seat,  and,  in  accordance  with  custom,  partook  of 
bread  and  wine,  and  afterwards  was  obliged  to  give  some  account  of  himself.  He  related,  in 
few  words,  that  he  was  the  son  of  a  poor  dependent  at  the  castle  of  Chamagne, — on  the  Mo- 
selle, bordering  on  the  Vosges,  and  near  Mirccourt — ,  and  born  in  the  diocese  of  Toul. 

"Then  a  true  born 'Lorrainer"!"  cried  Ruet,  without  any  presentiment  that  the  young- 
man  who  bore  the  surname  of  Gellee  would  at  a  later  period  immortalize  himself 

Claude  continued  his  history.  He  was  the  third  of  five  children,  and  his  two  eldest 
brothers,  who  lived  in  Freiburg  in  Brisgow,  were  engravers  on  wood.  It  appears  that  the 
young  painter  was  left  an  orphan  at  the  age  of  twelve  years.  His  brother  took  charge  of 
the  boy, — who  never  followed  the  business  of  a  pastry-cook,  as  many  of  his  biographers  have 
incorrectly  declared — and  a  relation  who  frequently  went  on  journeys  to  Italy  as  Ma'catite  di 
merletii,  or  dealer  in  lace,  took  the  lad  with  him  to  Rome.  At  this  early  age  he  possessed  a 
good  knowledge  of  drawing,  and  pursued  his  studies  now  in  this,  now  in  that  aielier,  for  he 
had  to  combat  against  bitter  popcrty,  as  the  lace  dealer,  owing  to  the  "tliiny  years  war" 
which  had  just  broken  out,  was  never  able  to  cross  the  Alps  during  the  whole  of  that  period. 
In  his  eighteenth  year  Claude  left  Rome  and  went  to  Naples,  where  he  was  received  by  and 
improved  under  Gottfried  Wals;  after  two  years  he  returned  to  Rome,  where  he  entered  the 
service  of  the  before-named  Agostino  Tassi,  who  made  use  of  him  as  occasion  might  require, 
cither  to  assist  him  on  his  pictures,  or  to  perform  the'duties  of  a  servant.  Acting  in  this 
double  capacity,  he  had  board  and  lodging,  and  wages  extra. 

Ruet  thought  he  could  perceive  that  this  must  have  been  a  time  when  the  young  man 
had  to  struggle  against  his  feelings,  which  he  endeavoured  to  concjuer,  although,  after  twelve 
years'  absence,  he  returned  to  his  native  country — to  find  another  Agostino  Tassi. 

It  seems  that,  after  being  plundered  by  the  robbers,  the  young  j^ainter  returned,  in  the 
dress  we  have  described,  to  the  castle  of  Chamagne,  where  he  was  but  coldly  received.  His 
intention  now  was  to  acquire  the  necessary  means  to  enable  him,  as  soon  as  possible,  to 
return  to  Italy,  which  had  become  his  second  home.  This  was  the  more  desirable,  as,  ac- 
cording to  all  appearance,  France  would  become  involved  in  the  dreadful  war  which  Avas 
raging  with  satanic  fury  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine. 


JOHN  TIIK  BAPTIST  IN  TIIK  WILDERXKSS,  AFTEK  t'l.Al  DE   MlUKAlN.  17 

The  noble  painter,  alter  listeninii"  to  Claude's  narration,  discovered  that  the  vonng 
man  possessed  inte]li<rence  which  did  not  develope  itself  in  the  first  desultory  conversation. 
While  relatint!"  his  story  he  jjave  such  e\ident  proofs  of  his  ahility.  in  his  gra|)!iic  descrip- 
tions, and  made  sucii  allusions  to  the  peculiar  characteristics  in  the  principles  of  art  and  the 
arrangement  and  treatment  of  a  subject,  that  a  light  dawned  upon  the  mind  of  Ruet,  for  he 
foimd  himself  conversing  with,  not  as  he  at  first  imagined,  a  drudge  or  atrendant  at  the 
easel  of  a  painter,  but  with  a  man  endowed  witii  talent,  whose  conceptions,  if  carried  out, 
would  one  day  place  him  at  the  head  of  his  profession.  It  must  be  admitted  that  Claude's 
language  was  somewhat  coarse,  or  rather  imperfect,  for,  having  studied  the  Italian 
language  sufficiently  to  rid  himself  ol'  the  patois  of  his  native  town,  the  transposition  of  his 
sentences  was  occasionally  crude,  but  at  the  same  time  energetic,  and  often  gave  an  agree- 
able, sometimes  more  poetical,  colouring  to  his  expressions  than  Ruet,  with  all  his  erudition, 
could  have  achieved  had  he  l)een  called  upon  to  furnish  similar  ideas.  The  painter  Baron 
placed  himself  before  the  modest  youth,  and,  although  in  gala  dress  and  in  his  state  saloon, 
could  not  control  himself,  liroke  out  into  a  paroxism  expressive  of  his  notions  o'f  art,  and 
with  insipid  volubility  strung  together  a  number  of  high-fiown  words  and  technicalities,  the 
meaning  of  which,  if  the  truth  may  be  told,  he  understood  himself  about  as  little  as  the  per- 
son to  whom  they  were  addressed  understood  them.  This  long  rhodomontade  finislicd, 
Claude  Ru.et  placed  the  stranger  on  the  list  of  painters  who  worked  under  his  su]ierintcn- 
dence,  and  fixed  the  following  day  for  the  commencement  of  his  labours. 

"I  hope,"  said  Ruet,  "j'ou  will  find  Xancy  so  agreeable  that  you  will  soon  cease 
longing  for  your  return  to  Italy.  Observe  but  a  little  caution  in  yoiu-  intercourse  with  your 
colleagues,  and  your  situation  wiU  be  pleasant.  Always  attend  to  what  I  say,  and  at  all 
times  be  on  my  side.  There  are  tAVO  Lombardians  in  the  Carmelite  church  whom  you  will 
do  well  to  avoid.  On  the  other  hand  there  is  Charles  E)rard,  a  man  whom  you  may  easily 
niake  your  friend.  I  saw  yov^a.  little  while  ago  in  the  company  of  Jehan  ilantot:  he  is  a 
drunken  babbler,  and  I  w^am  you  against  him.  He  is  a  malicious,  evil-minded  fellow,  that  I 
for  certain  reasons — which  you  will  ere  long  discover — must  put  up  with.  In  a  word,  his 
daugiiter  is  the  mistress  of  our  gracious  duke,  who  honours  me  so  sincerely  with  his  iiiend- 
ship  that  I  am  obliged  to  be  apparently  blind  to  his  faults. — 1  wish  you  success  Gellee,  and 
confess  that  you  have  made  a  most  agreeable  impression  upon  me.  I  will  advance  you  some 
money  to  meet  present  emei'gencies  in  Nancy." 

Claude  somewhat  embarrassed,  drew  a  roll  of  paper  from  his  pocket,  and  handed  it 
to  Master  Ruet.  They  were  some  landscapes,  w'hich  the  latter  looked  at  with  silent  as- 
tonishment. 

"I  did  not  expect  this,"  said  he  almost  involuntarily — this  is  masterly;  I  have  seldom 
seen  anything  finer. — —Understand  me  rightly,"  continued  he,  "these  things  are  by  no 
means  perfect,  there  are  things  very  objectionable,  for  instance,  in  the  figures,  which  can  only 

be  considered  as  mere  sketches why  did  you  not  finish  these  groups? — they   give  the 

whole  an  appearance  of  'iinfinish.'" 

"To  those  who  purchase  my  landscapes,  I  give  the  figures  into  the  bargain,"  replied 
Claude  smiling.  "I  have  always  the  full  intention  to  finish  the  figures,  but  they  are  in- 
variably, even  though  I  put  them  in  the  immediate  fore-gi-ound,  too  far  from  the  beholder 
to  be  distinctly  seen.   I  have  so  much  ^pace  in  my  pictures  that  the  figures  must  necessarily 

Galleries  ot  '  3 


IS;  THE    GALLERIES    OF    A'lENNA. 

come  very  small  in  proportion,  and  they  are  likewise  of  little  importance.  Therefore  they 
have  this  advantage — they  may  be  plaecd  anywhere  without  destroying  the  light  or  shadow. 
They  certainly  never  disturb  the  piece,  and  are  often  of  use  in  one  way  or  another — they  at 
least  give  a  certain  degree  of  life  to  the  sul)ject,  and  serve  to  evade  an  appearance  of  vacuity." 

Ruet  exahiined  minutely  one  of  the  drawings,  expatiating  very  learnedly  on  its  dcf'cct^■, 
and  declared  himself  not  exactly  of  opinion  \vith  the  young  man :  he  continued  to  criticize  the 
figiu'es  with  great  se\erity,  and  observed  that,  as,  in  the  Carmelite  church,  Claude  would  be 
chiefly  engaged  on  figures,  he  would  see  the  necessity  of  devoting  more  care  and  attention 
to  that  department  of  art.  The  latter  part  of  his  exordium  was  delivered  in  somewhat  of  a 
monosyllabic  form — it  may  be  that  he  felt  more  than  he  knew  how  to  express — however,  so 
busied  was  he  in  examining  Claude's  landscape,  that  he  seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  abriut 
his  original  intention  of  shewing  the  young  painter  his  collection.  At  length  he  handed  to 
his  protegee  a  sum  of  money,  expressly  telling  him  that  he  had  now  j)urchased  the  drawings, 
and  that  he  should  never  repent  having  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  Baron. 

Claude  took  leave  of  his  noble  patron,  much  astonished  by  the  receipt  of  so  large  a 
sum,  and  hastened,  in  accordance  with  his  promise,  to  the  cellar,  ^\here  he  ff)und,  alone,  wait- 
ing for  him,  Jehan  Mantot. 

"I'm  a  man  of  my  word"  said  the  merry  grig  as  Claude  entered,  "the  others  arc  gone 
the  round  of  the  churches  to  have  a  look  at  the  country  girls.  They  fancy  themselves  high- 
spirited  fellows,  but  the  way  they  go  about  their  love  affairs  shews  that  they  are  preciously 
home-baked!  Jehan  Mantot  laughs  at  them  all,  pardieu!  Two  bottles  more,"  addressing  the 
landlord,  "and,  d'ye  hear,  old  Fungus,  the  oldest  you  have  in  your  cellar." 

"\\  ill  Charles  Jirard  not  return?"  asked  Claude  somewhat  anxiously. 

"Ha,  ha,  Euet's  recommendation,"  said  Mantot  laughing.  "You  need  not  wait  for 
him,  younker.  He's  trying  to  get  a  view  of  the  remarkable  white,  pointed  nose  of  the  Kamn- 
es*  Adriemie;  then  he  will  make  some  verses  on  this  nose  pointr  alter  which  he'll  bring 
the  verse  on  canvas,  the  composition  he  will  set  to  music,  and  by  way  of  a  finisli  he'll  sino» 
off  the  stanzas  with  lute  accompaniment.  If  Erard  were  not  one  solid  mass  of  conceit  ;ind 
cunning,  he  would  have  been  long  ago  blown  away  by  any  one  of  the  four  winds.  ^Miy, 
were  Euet  to  know  that  this  dauber  had  an  eye  on  his  daugiiter  he  would  cudgel  him  till 
his  flesh  looked  the  colour  of  the  martyrs  in  Erai'd's  own  ])ictures.  Well,  we've  nothing  to 
do  with  that,  so  here's  to  you — wishing  you  success  inNanry:"  and,  suiting  the  action  to  the 
word,  he  drank  off  a  large  glass  of  Rhenish  wine. 

Mantot's  frank  manner,  in  addition  to  his  bonhonicrie,  made  him  a  \  cry  good  comjian- 
ion,  at  least  so  thought  Claude.  He  spoke  in  a  very  straight-forward  manner  of  his  daughter 
Louise,  who  was  beloved  by  his  highness,  ami  who  would  soon  enjoy  the  title  of  Duchess  of 
liurgundy. 

"That  would  liave  been  a  good  catch  lor  Demoiselle  deRuet,"'said  Mantot.  "Her  father 
is  now  i)laying,  hut  faute  de  mieux,  the  strict  moralist.  If  you  have  anything  to  do  with  him, 
take  care  what  you  arc  about,  Claude,  or  you  will  rc|)ent  it.  Get  your  drawings  back  from 
him  to  morrow,  I  have  money  euough  to  redeem  them." 

Claude  told  him,  they  were  merely  slight  sketches;  and  produced  fi<im  his  pocket 
one  that  he  had  not  vcntiu'ed  to  give  witli  the  rest,  it  being  too  slightly  touched  in. 

"What!"  .said  Mantot,  "were  they  like  tiiis?   I'll  waucr  tlmt  Monsieur  Ic  Baron  v.ill  iiike 


.TOJIN  THE  15APTIST  IX  TIIK  WILDERNESS,  AFTER  CLAUDE  LORRAIN.  19 

them  this  evening  to  the  duke,  dcflare  he  drew  thcni  himself,  and  get  an  enormous  price  tor 
them ril  give  Louise  a  liint."    ■ 

Claude  had  experienced  enough  of  painters'  intrigues,  therefore  thought  it  not  im- 
prol)al)lc  that  Mantot  miglit  win  his  wager.  The  old  fellow  pleased  him  very  well,  and,  after 
spending  a  few  hours  together,  Mantot  suggested  Claude's  taking  up  liis  (juarters  witli  him 
for  the  present,  which  ofter  the  latter,  witli  little  hesitation,  accepted.  By  nuitual  consent, 
and  with  a  feeling  that  Ruet  was  unjust  in  the  opinion  he  had  expressed  of  Mantot,  the 
young  painter  followed  his  new  mentor,  and  entered  a  spacious  building,  the  interior  of  which 
was  fitted  up  with  princely  splendour. 

In  this  mansion  resiiled  Louise  Mantot,  and  her  father  insisted  upon  introducing 
Claude,  without  any  cei'emony,  to  his  daughter. 

The  lady  was  about  twenty  four  years  of  age,  possessing  that  style  of  beauty  which 
dazzles  rather  than  captivates.  Her  liair  curled  naturally  and  was  of  a  rich  black  hue:  her 
large,  brown,  sparkling  eyes  threw  a  radiance  over  her  features,  which  di<l  not  (juitc  reach 
the  recognized  standard  of  beaut  v.  Her  ibrehead  was  not  hioh,  her  nose  rather  inclined  to 
the  turn-up,  and  her  lips  slightly  protruding:  but,  if  these  may  be  called  defects,  they  were  fully 
counterjicted  by  the  beautiful  bloom — that  pure  red  and  white — of  her  complexion:  her  form, 
though  bordering  on  ciahonpoini,  was  finely  moulded,  and  her  graceful  deportment  could 
not  fail  to  attract  admiration.  Her  look,  on  the  entrance  of  her  father,  betraj'ed  an  irascible 
temperament. 

Claude,  soon  after  the  introduction  to  the  future  Duchess  of  Burgundy,  discovered 
that  she,  like  her  father,  practised  but  little  control  over  her  style  of  conversation.  On 
learning  that  the  young  painter  was  engaged  on  the  Carmelite  church,  she  naively  told  him 
that  she  expected  to  find  her  portrait  introduced  in  his  first  picture.  Claude  promised  obe- 
dience to  her  commands,  provided  they  did  not  interfere  wit  h  the  special  orders  of  her  father 
relative  to  the  suljject  of  the  picture. 

Ruet  seemed  to  view  the  intimacj'  which  had  sprung  up  between  his  protegee  and 
Jehan  Mantot  with  secret  uneasiness.  Nearly  every  day,  on  some  pretence  or  other,  he 
sent  for  Claude  to  attend  upon  him  at  his  house.  Sometimes  he  had  to  shew  him  some 
ai'chsological  rarity  sent  him  by  one  of  his  numerous  friends  and  correspondents,  often 
would  he  unreasonably  press  Claude  to  furnish  a  landscape  back-groimd  to  one  of  his  altar- 
pieces  with  which  he  was  commissioned,  in  order  to  expedite  the  delivery  of  the  picture,  and 
to  spare  his  OAvn  exertions  and  his  anything  but  prolific  powers  of  production.  If  Claude, 
as  was  now  very  often  the  case,  remained  at  home,  by  the  desire  of  Louise,  the  figure  of 
Ruet's  gigantic  sei-vant — the  very  impersonation  of  a  bailiff— was  sure  to  make  its  appearance. 
Claude  of  course  obeyed  the  mandate,  and  enjoyed  the  doubtfid  pleasure  of  listening  to  the 
Baron's  long-winded  anecdotes  of  his  master,  old  Tempesta,  and  his  favourite  stories  of  Callot, 
against  whose  rivalry  he  maintained  that  he  had  come  off  victorious.  Ruet's  last  resource 
was  to  send  for  him  under  the  pretence  of  being  obliged  to  make  some  important  remarks 
on  the  several  groups  of  figures  on  which  he  was  at  work  in  the  Carmelite  cluirch.  These 
critical  remarks  were  not  altogether  superfluous,  as  Gellee's  figures  were  stiff  and  incor- 
rectly drawn,  although  he  knew  very  well  how  to  disperse  his  lights. 

By  his  constant  attendance  at  Ruet's  palace,  Claude,  by  degrees,  attained  a  more  in- 


20  THK    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

tiniate  footing,  not  only  with  tlic  master  himself,  but  likewise  witli  his  daughter.  He  must 
indeed  have  been  "unsusceptible,"  or  have  already  been  aHiu'ed  by  the  charms  of  another,  if 
he  had  not  remarked  the  accomplishments  of  the  timid,  taciturn,  almost  dejected  Adriennc. 
Claude  did  not  consider  Adrienne's  portrait  l)y  any  means  so  exquisite  as  that  of  Maria  Ko- 
busti,  the  beautiful  daughter  of  Tintoretto,  although  Kuet  placed  it  on  a  i)arallel,  but  he  had 
great  cause  to  Ije  astonished  by  the  erudition  she  displayed.  When,  at  the  request  of  her  father, 
she  would  sometimes  read  and  translate  the  innnortal  pastorals  of  Horace  or  of  Virgil,  her 
melodious  voice  charmed  and  enraptureil  the  young  painter.  How  was  it  possible  that  these 
jioets  had  seen  the  same  in  nature  (hat  the  young  jialnter  saw:  that  the  serene  quiet,  the  sub- 
lime harmony  which  Claude  instinctively  endeavoured  to  delineate  in  his  pictures,  could 
have  been  so  sensitively  and  magically  exi)ressed  bytliem  in  words!  From  that  moment,  when 
jVdrienne  Ruct  had  revealed  this  store  of  literary  knowledge,  no  summons,  no  in^•itation  was 
necessary  to  lure  him  to  the  residence  of  the  master.  He  listened  with  heartfelt  delight  to 
all  that  fell  from  the  lips  of  the  charming  virtiwsa,  and  zealously  employed  his  leisure  hours 
in  endeavouring  to  represent  on  canvas  what  the  poet  had  celebrated  in  song. 

Time,  with  its  steady  pace,  rolled  on  as  usual.  It  hap))ened,  however,  that  Claude, 
in  paying  his  accustomed  daily  visit  to  the  Baron,  presented  himself  an  hour  earlier  than  he 
Avas  wont.  What  was  his  surprize  on  discovering  Adrienne,  sunk  in  dee]>  meditation,  with 
one  of  his  own  pictures  before  her!  He  stood  with  mute  anxiety,  fearing  to  distin-l)  the  cur- 
i-ent  of  her  thoughts.  He  remained  for  some  moments  in  doubt  whether  he  ought  to  apprize 
her  of  liis  presence.  He  continued  to  watch  her  animated  coimtenance;  she,  clasping  Iter 
hands  with  evident  emotion,  heaved  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  and  faintly,  though  emphatically,  ex- 
claimed "perfection r  Claude,  no  longei-  able  to  govern  his  feelings  nor  to  conceal  his 
triumjih,  advanced  towards  her.  She  greeted  him  with  a  sl%ht  quivering  of  her  lip,  and  an 
appearance  of  momentary  embarrassment;  she  soon  recovered  herself,  however,  and,  with 
her  usual  tact,  adverted  to  the  pictures  on  \\hich  her  father  \vas  engaged,  and  to  general 
subjects.  Diu-ing  this  dcsultoiy  conversation  they  had  taken  several  turns  round  the  saloon; 
a  ])ause  ensued,  and  they  came  to  a  stand-still  I )efore  Claude's  picture.  Adrienne,  whose  gen- 
erous feelings  promjjted  her  to  l)estow  her  meed  of  praise  upon  the  young  jiainter  for  his 
extraordinary  exertions,  by  some  means  overstepped  the  modest  panegyric  she  intended,  and 
at  length  gave  utterance  to  her  real  sentiments.  "There  is  as  nnich  beauty  and  ])octiy," 
said  she,  "in  this  picture  as  in  the  verse  of  Virgil  from  which  the  design  was-  taken."  This 
was  enough — such  an  encomium,  and  from  her  li])s!  Claude  had  never  before  felt  that  r/e- 
mniir'  feeling  of  adoration  for  her  which  now  filled  his  breast,  and  he,  a  stranger  to  dissimu- 
lation, attem|)ted  to  express  in  words  what  his  heart  was  bursting  to  unfold.  He  declared, 
in  a  somewhat  incoherent  strain,  his  sense  of  her  man}'  virtues,  his  admiiation  of  her  various 
acconii)lishments,  that  his  success  in  life,  his  happiness,  all,  all  depended — 

"Hush!"  commanded  the  young  lady,  almost  ovcr])owered  by  her  feelings;  and,  with 
undisguised  emotion,  she  rctii'ed.  We  leave  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  the  effect  pro- 
duced ujjon  Claude  by  that  inonosyllaljle.  He  loved  her  with  that  fervency  which  can  b' 
inspired  only  iiy  first  affection — that  ])assion  had  possession  of  his  heart. 

Claude  continued  his  visits  at  the  I^ron's.  Adrienne's  manner  was  more  reserved 
and  studied  fiiMu  formerly;  it  was  evident  that  she   kept  a  strict  guard  o^er  her  beiia\!iiur 


JOHN  THE  BAPTIST  IN  THE  WILDEUNESS,  AFTER  CLAUDE  LORRAIN.  21 

when  hiv  lover  was  present;  ami  A'lrieiine,  since  the  time  that  Chiude  had  so  ingenuously 
declared  his  passion,  had,  much  as  she  respected  the  feelings  of  the  young  man,  avoided 
meeting  liim  alone,  and  conversed  with  liim  at  such  times  only  when  attended  by  her  maid, 
or  in  the  society  of  lier  father  or  his  friends.  There  was  a  barrier  between  tiicni  which  ex- 
isted not  formerly.  Love  was  awakened,  nay,  firmly  fixed  in  his  generous  heart,  and  he  felt 
that  she,  who  had  ever  exercised  such  influence  over  it,  could  not  fail  to  sympathise  with, 
if  not  reciprocate,  his  love — a  sickening  sensation  came  over  him,  for  he  saw  that,  instead  of 
approaching  the  consummation,  he  was  daily  receding  from  the  attainment  of  his  ideal.  Now, 
it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  events  that  such  a  state  of  things  can  endure  uninterruptedly  for 
any  length  of  time,  for  with  all  Adrienne's  tact  and  caution,  to  which  allusion  has  already 
been  made,  she  did  one  evening  find  herself  alone — no,  she  was  not  alone,  for  the  young 
paintei',  seizing  the  long  looked  for  opportunity,  was  at  her  feet,  and  with  increased  ardour 
renewing  the  protestations  of  his  love. 

Adrienne  grew  deadly  pale.  "I  entreat  you,"  said  she  with  faltering  voice,  "if  you 
really  love  me — to  be  silent — or — will  you  destroy  ray  happiness  for  ever?  I  conjure  you," 
she  continued  in  a  hoarse  whisper,  "to  have  pity  on  me — and  on  your  best  friend." 

Claude  left  the  mansion  with  a  heavy  heart. 

The  young  painter  eventually  discovered  that  his  beloved  one  was  betrothed  to  a 
favoured  rival — but  to  whom?  If  any  reliance  might  be  placed  in  the  cynical  jests  of 
Mantot,  on  the  malicious  inuendoes  of  his  daughter  Louise,  that  rival  could  be  no  other  than 
Charles  Erard.  Claude,  naturally  of  a  mild  and  generous  disposition,  instead  of  seeking  the 
life  of  hi"^  rival,  as  many  in  his  situation  would  have  done,  submitted  remorsefidly  to  his 
fate,  lamenting  that  his  position  in  life  rendered  him  ineligible  to  win  the  heart  of  Adrienne. 
He  was  wholly  unconscious  of  iis  own  merits  and  genial  talent,  he  had  no  presentiment 
that  he  was  the  rising  painter  of  the  day;  and  that,  ere  long,  he  sJiould  take  precedence  of 
all  his  contemporaries — be  the  most  celebrated  painter  of  his  time.  No,  he  gave  way  to 
despair:  all  hope  forsook  him  when  he  reflected  on  her  accomplishments,  and  her  learning,  so 
vastly  superior  to  his  own  -  the  discrepancy  was  too  great — he  had  no  right  to  hope  for  her 
affection — her  refusal  was  just.  Erard,  although  a  painter  of  niediocre  talent,  enjoyed  the 
advantage  which  a  first-rate  education  always  bestows;  he  had  moved  in  the  best  society,  his 
notions  corresjjonded  more  with  the  aspiring  views  of  Adrienne,  and  therefore  it  was  not  to 
be  wondered  at  that  she  should  have  a  (ireference  for  him. 

The  evident  change  which  had  come  over  his  favourite  pupil  could  no  longer  pass 
unobserved  by  Ruet.  He  determined  to  sift  the  matter  to  tiie  bottom,  and  subjected'  the 
young  man  to  a  very  close,  but  at  the  same  time  kind,  examination. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  is  the  matter  with  you,  Claude?"  asked  Ruet  on  finding  him- 
self unable  to  bring  the  young  man  to  any  kind  of  confession.  "  You  are  in  love — and  with  my 
daughter,  who  gives  you  no  encouragement. — Be  silent,  I  will  hear  no  untruths.  Adrieiuie 
is  mistress  of  her  own  hand  and  heart :  I  am  certain  she  has  discernment  sufficient  to  bestow 
them  worthily:  but  I  tell  you,  young  man,  I  like  you;  I  have  something  of  a  parental  affection 
for  you;  I  have  proved  you,  and  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  deserve  to  Ijecome 
nearer  connected  with  me.  Let  me  add.  this  is  the  deciiled  opinion  of  my  illustrious  frieml, 
the  Duke .      You  are,  independently  of  other  things,  a  master  in  that  department    of  art 


22  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

which  vou  profess— it  would  not  be  easy  to  find  your  equal;  you  have  been  twelve  years  in 
Rome,  and  that,  with  me,  is  the  most  important  i)oint,  for  I  never  acknowledge  a  man  to  be 
a  painter  who  has  not  been  in  Rome.  You  may  one  day  with  perfect  right  take  my  place 
as  the  first  painter  of  Lorraine  and  Burgundy,  aye  further.— Well,  then  Adrienne  has  refused 
vou — very  natural  my  son!    The  tree  does  not  fall  by  the  first  stroke  of  the  hatchet." 

"Let  that  rest,  Sir,"  replied  Claude  somewhat  distressed.  "I  am  not  to  be  condemned 
if  I  respectfullv  admire  Adrienne  Ruet,  nor  is  the  young  lady  to  be  blamed  if,  beyond  iier 
good  will  towards  me,  she  possesses  no  feeling  of  love  for  me!  The  brilliant  prospect  you 
have  just  placed  l)cforo  me  I  nuist  decline.  Italy,  sweet  sunny  Italy  has  attractions  for 
me — yes,  Italy  where,  though  in  poverty,  I  lived  much  happier  tiian  here." 

"Has  any  explanation  taken  place  between  you  and  Adrienne?"  enquired  Ruet. 

"I  submit  to  my  fate  without  explanation." 

"Do  vou  mean,  you  will  give  way  to  a  rival?"  asked  the  master,  the  blood  rushing  to 
his  cheeks. 

"No,"  answered  Claude,  his  head  sinking  on  his  breast,  "my  unhappiness  lies  in 
myself." 

Ruet  seemed  to  breathe  more  freely. 

"Do  not  be  too  preci]iitate  in  your  determination  to  return  to  Italy,"  said  he  at  length, 
"there  is  as  wide  a  fiehl  open  to  you  in  France.  I  should  Hke  to  have  you  near  me,  but  I 
see  the  necessitv  of  your  leaving  Nancy.    Even    on  account  of  the  Duke — " 

"What  have  I  to  do  with  the  Duke?"  asked  Claude  astonished. 

"Nothing,  when  you  are  married,"  said  Ruet  smiling.  Besides,  I  cannot  imagine  that 
you  would  have  to  sigh  ten  years  to  Louise  Mantot  before  she  consented. 

This  observation  recalled  to  the  mind  of  the  young  painter  a  circumstance  which,  till 
now,  had  nearly  escaped  his  notice.  He  began  to  reflect  over  a  number  of  significant  hints 
thrown  out,  from  time  to  time,  both  by  Mantot  and  his  daughter,  the  inference  to  be  drawn 
from  which  was,  that  the  latter  received  the  Duke's  homage  with  aversion.  Claude,  at  the 
time,  was  too  deeply  wrapped  itp  in  his  own  affairs  to  attach  any  importance  to  tliem,  and 
now  he  thought  he'  had  discovered  the  reason  of  Mantot  and  Louise  constantly  endeavouring 
to  dissuade  him  from  visiting  Ruet  and  his  daughter.  After  pondering  over  these  iiicts,  he 
felt  firmly  convinced  that  the  pretty  Louise,  regardless  of  the  devotions  of  her  princely  ad- 
mirer, loved  him  with  all  the  warmth  of  which  her  passionate  heart  was  capable.  ^ 

Arrived  at  this  conclusion,  Claude  withdrew  himself  from  the  Mantot  family  with 
marked  coldness.  He  had  one  more  picture  to  paint  for  the  Carmelite  church,  and  in  this  he  de- 
termined to  delineate  the  figure  of  Adrienne,  in  all  her  chaste  beauty  and  grace,  as  the  glorified 
queen  of  heaven  and  of  the  heart,  and,  having  accomplished  this,  to  leave  Burgundy  for  ever. 
He  lost  no  time,  but  immediately  set  to  work  to  prosecute  his  plan.  Scarcely  had  he  so  far 
finished  the  picture  of  his  beloved  as  to  leave  no  doubt  oi"  the  likeness  to  the  original,  when 
Louise  seemed  to  have  lost  all  control  over  herself,  and,  giving  rein  to  her  passions,  she  en- 
deavoured to  .storm  the  heart  of  the  young  man  by  entreaties,  by  tears,  and,  at  last,  by 
threats. 

"Hope  not  to  tear  yourself  from- me,"  she  cried,  half  frantic  through  the  contending 
passions  of  love  and  rage  which  were  working  in  her  bosom;  "where  you  dwell,  there  will  I 
be:  your  home  shall  be  my  home,  and  your  grave  shall  be  mine!     What,  you  dcsj)ise  my 


JOHN  THE  BAPTIST  IN  HIE  WILDERNESS,  AFTER  CLAUDE  LORRAIN.  23 

riciies!  Well,  then  it  will  be  no  sacrifice  to  lue,  1  will  renoimce  them,  I  will  follow  you  as  u 
beggar — as  your  slave!" 

Claude  was  deeply  agitated  at  this  extraordinary  outburst  of  passion;  he,  after  a  pain- 
ful pause  of  a  few  moments,  mournfidly  replied — 

"You  are  not  well,  Louise;  your  in\incible  caprice,  your  excitable  nature  work  too 
strongly  against  your  reason,  and  suffer  you  to  indulge  in  the  expression  of  sentiments  which 
you  do  not  really  feel.  Let  me  leave  Nancy,  and  in  ten  days  you  will  think  differently — 
probably  wholly  forget  me." 

"Will  you  that  I  plunge  a  dagger  m  my  hcarr  that  you  may  be  assured  of  my  truth? 
Persevere  in  your  intention  of  lea^■ing  me  and  my  death  shall  seal  my  words — aud^ — mark 
rae — my  soul  w  ill  never  rest  so  long  as  that  likeness  of  the  reptile,  who  robbed  me  of  all  I 
prized  on  earth,  shall  look  down  from  the  picture  you  painted  for  the  high  altar  of  the  ca- 
thedral! Must  I  droop  and  be  forgotten  wliile  the  cold,  hypocritical  daughter  of  Ruet — there 
portrayed  a  thousand  times  more  beautiful  fhan  she  really  is — is  paraded  for  ever  in  all  the 
bloom  of  youth?  The  thought  will  dri%e  me  mad.  The  honour  is  due  to  me.  You  pro- 
mised me,  long  before  that  snake  entwined  herself  round  your  heart,  that  you  would  paint 
me,  and  no  other,  as  yoiu*  queen  of  heaven!" 

"I  will  make  a  vow  to  represent  you  as  the  Madonna  in  my  very  next  altar-piece," 
said  Gellee. 

"That  picture  I  shall  never  see,  for,  I  shall  be  dead.  Efface  the  likeness  of  that  de- 
testable wretch  in  your  pictiu-e  of  the  annimeiatipn,  and  I  will  fall  on  my  knees  and 
thank  you." 

"I  will  not  efface  it,"  answered  Claude  in  a  determined  tone. — "Ah!  Ah!  We  shall 
see'"  vocil crated  Louise  bursting  with  rage." 

From  this  day  forth  war  was  declared  between  Claude  and  Louise.  The  lady  seemed 
to  have  gained  the  Duke  over  to  her  side,  for  Henry  IL  sent  for  the  painter,  and  exjjressed 
a  peremptory  desire  that  the  likeness  of  Louise  should  be  substituted  for  that  of  Adrienne  in 
the  altar-piece. 

"I  cannot  make  any  alteration.  Sir,"  said  Claude,  "unless  you  wish  me  to  destroy  the 
work.    If  that  be  the  case,  you  can  have  painted  anytliing  you  please." 

"Hold!  friend,"  replied  the  Duke  haughtily.  "You  shall  paint  Louise's  portrait  in  your 
altar-piece." 

"Never!" 

"That  will  depend  upon  whether  I  can  compel  you  to  obey  me,'"  returned  tlie  Duke 
scowling.    "You  may  leave  me  for  the  present." 

Claude  and  Ruet  were  of  one  opinion,  that  it  was  high  time  for  the  young  man,  if  he 
wished  to  escape  the  vengeance  of  Louise,  to  depart  from  Nancy.  He  made  preparations  for 
his  jom-ney,  intending  to  set  out  the  following  night :  in  order,  however,  that  no  sus()icion  as 
to  his  purpose  might  be  excited,  he  went  as  usual  to  the  Carmelite  church  and  ascended  the 
scaffolding,  jjrobably  more  with  the  object  of  taking  leave  of  his  beloved  than  of  painting. 

Jehan  Mantot  was  at  work  not  far  from  him,  and  seemed  to  be  in  high  good  hiunour. 
He  indulged  in  all  kinds  of  jokes,  and  exercised  his  coarse  wit  chiefly  upon  Claude.  .'Sud- 
denly there  was  a  commotion  amongst  the  labourers — the  Duke,  with  Louise  on  his  arm,  liad 
come  to  inspect  the  ahar-piece.    ISIautot  took  off  his  apron,  laid  his  brush  and  pallet  aside. 


24  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

and  ran  over  the  scaffolding  in  order  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  prince;  when,  all  at  once,  a 
board  gave  way  and  j\Iantot  was  jirecipitatcd  a  considerahle  depth,  but  not  so  far  as  to 
reach  the  ground,  for  it  haiipened  that  an  iron  hook,  attached  to  one  of  the  scaffolding  poles, 
arrested  his  fall,  and  Mantot  found  himself  suspended  by  the  breech,  head  downwards,  about 
thirty  feet  from  the  ground. 

Louise  fainted,  and  Gcllee  trembled  with  horror,  for  he  supposed  Mantot  had  fallen 
headlong  to  the  earth  and  had  his  bi-ains  dashed  out.  For  some  minutes  all  was  bustle 
and  confusion,  no  immediate  help  was  at  hand,  they  were  running  in  all  directions  to  procure 
ladders  to  extricate  Mantot  from  his  unpleasant  and  perilous  situation.  All  this  time  the  old 
painter,  kept  in  suspense  in  a  double  sense  and  nearly  frightened  out  of  his  wits,  was  roaring 
with  fear,  and  crying  for  a  priest  to  come  and  confess  him. 

The  scfjuel  however,  was  more  serious  than  the  reader  has  anticipated.  "I  am  caught 
in  my  own  trap;  Claude!  Claude!  forgive  me,"  screamed  Mantot;  "it  was  Louise,  it  was  at  her 
instigation  that  I  did  it — how  often  have  I  refused  to  execute  lier  cursed  plan — it  was  she — 
she  tortured  me  with  her  perpetual  entreaties  —the  trap  was  laid  for  you,  and  I  am  justly" — 
he  had  no  time  .to  utter  more,  for  at  this  moment  the  hook,  which  till  now  had  supported 
his  ponderous  weight,  gave  way,  and  he  fell  heavily  on  the  stones  beneath.  The  traitor  lay 
a  mangled  corpse — the  viction  of  his  own  duplicity. 

Filled  with  amazement  and  horror  at  this  tragedy,  Claude  resolved  never  again  to 
ascend  the  scaffolding.    He  left  Nancy  the  lollowing  day,  and  set  off  on  his  way  to  Italj*. 

On  his  route  thither  he  was  overtaken  in  Marseilles  by  Charles  Erard,  who  had 
I'ome  to  an  understanding  with  his  future  father-in-law;  and  Ruet  deemed  it  absolutely  expedient 
that  he  should  visit  Italy.  The  two  friends  made  the  voyage  together,  and  in  due  time  ar- 
rived at  "the  eternal  city." 

At  that  time  Nicolas  Poussin,  a  Frenchman,  was  one  of  the  first  masters,  and  un- 
doubtedly the  greatest  landscape  painter  in  Kome.  Tizian  and  Annibale  Carracci  had  .intro- 
duced the  so-called  historic-landscape  style,  and  Poussin  carried  it  out  to  the  greatest  per- 
fection. Poussin  received  his  countryman  Gellee  with  great  cordiality  into  his  dwelling  on  the 
Monte  della  Trinita.  The  magnificent  landscapes  of  Poussin,  illustrating  classic  and  ancient 
history,  and  more  exclusively  confined  to  Rome,  tended  in  a  great  measure  to  heighten  Claude's 
love  for  his  art.  Less  profound  in  his  compositions  and  not  so  classically  studied  as  Poussin, 
Claude  Lorrain — for  so  he  was  now  called — diverged  entirely  from  the  proud  world  of  ruins, 
which  so  eminently  characterised  the  works  of  the  former,  and  devoted  himself  solely  to  the 
stud}'  of  nature.  His  chief  delight  was  to  observe  the  action  of  the  sun's  rays  in  all  its  dif- 
ferent phases.  "I  study  under  the  gi-eatest  of  all  masters,"  he  used  to  say  jestingly  "for  the 
sun  is  my  master."  His  first  productions,  whicli  were  not  drawn  from  nature,  merely  exhibit 
his  power  in  the  display  of  sunlight  effects,  and  we  find  in  all  his  early  pictures  that  the 
subjects  were  always  subordinate  to  the  brilliant  sunlight  effects  which  he  invariably  intro- 
duced. He  never  sufficiently  appreciated  the  actual  .study  of  natural  scenery  until  he  one 
day  found  Sandrart ,  not  far  from  the  cascades'  of  Tivoli,  carefully  making  a  drawing  of  a 
rock.  The  importance  of  this  struck  him  immediately,  and  he  became  indefatigable  in  the 
study  of  actual  nature.  For  many  years  afterwards  Sandrart  was  the  constant  companion 
of  his  excur.sions  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Rome. 

Sandrart  was  led  away  by  the  choice  of  a  romantic  subject,  vihereas  Claude  ahyays 


JOHN   THE  BAPTIST  IN  THE  WILDERNESS.  AFTER  CLAUDE  LOURAIN.  25 

chose  idylish,  (jiiict  pieces  for  his  fore-grounds.  He  was  remarkable  for  the  sharp  Ijut  gra- 
duated outlines  and  distinctness  in  his  local  colours,  receding  into  the  horizon :  or  as  Sandrart 
expresses  it:  "ilUminori  snltem  piiiffebat  forma  qucegice  post  secundum  longius  distarent  fundum 
et  vei'svs  horizoiiieiii  dimintierenUir." 

Claude  was  the  great  master  of  aerial  perspective.  No  master  better  understood  the 
art  of  representing  unlimited  distance;  and  he  stands  unequalled  in  his  brilliant  breadths  of 
light,  and  the  distribution  of  the  majestic  rays  of  the  sun.  His  fame  increased  with  extraor- 
•linary  rapi<lity;  he  not  only  enjoyed  the  ])atronage  of  Pope  Urban  VHI.  and  the  Cardinal 
Bentivoglio,  but  he  received  conmaissions  for  pictures  from  most  of  the  courts  of  Europe, 
amongst  whom  Pliiliji  IV.  of  Spain  was  one  of  his  most  liberal  patrons.  His  genius  and 
style  accorded  with  the  taste  of  the  time;  he  re-gave  the  verse  of  the  Roman  poets  through 
tiie  medium  of  landscape  scenery, — the  elegant  compositions,  the  lively  myths  of  the  wag- 
gish Ovid,  or  the  heroic  figures  of  Virgil;  and  he  made  his  landscapes  the  Vehicles  of  para- 
daisieal  bonuties  from  scenes  of  Holy  Writ. 

Claude,  having  reached  the  very  pinnacle  of  celebrity,  applied  himself  assiduously  to 
his  art,  and  was  remarkably  fertile  with  his  pencil.  Indefatigable  as  he  was,  and  numerous 
as  his  productions  were,  he  found  it  impossible  to  execute  all  the  commissions  which  had 
been  heaped  upon  him,  and  imitators  of  his  style  were  not  wanting  who  passed  off  upon  the 
uninitiated  their  own  works  for  those  of  Claude,  recei\ang  for  them  a  very  remimerative  price. 
To  such  an  extent  was  this  fraud  practised,  that  the  great  master,  in  justice  to  himselfi  and 
to  his  patrons,  made  rough  sketdigs  of  all  his  own  productions ;  these  he  had  at  length  bound 
in  one  volume,  which  he  entitled  the  "Book  of  Truth" — Libro  ff  invenzioni  ovvere  di  verita, 
or  Lihev  reritatis.  This  valuable  treasure,  still  in  existence,  is  in  the  possession  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  and  forms  a  series  of  light  pen-and-ink  sketches.  These  sketches  are  the 
more  interesting,  as  they  serve  to  show  with  what  certainty  they  were  touched  in,  and  the 
precision  with  \\hich  they  were  followed  out  in  the  finished  pictures  of  the  master.  The  title 
of  the  "Book  of  Truth"  is  written  in  Claude's  own  hand,  and  is  as  follows:  "Audi  10  dagosto 
1677.  Ce  present  Wwe  appartien  a  moy,  que  je  faict  durant  ma  vie,  Claudid  Gillee,  dit  le 
Lorains,  a  Eoma,  le  23,  aos  16S0."  These  sketches  were  etched  by  Carlom,  in  London, 
in   1777. 

The  latter  part  of  his  life  Claude  passed  in  Rome,  where  he  built  a  villa,  still  to  be 
seen,  on  the  declivity  of  the  Janiculus.  In  this  retreat  he  ended  his  days,  according  to  the 
inscription  upon  his  monument  preserved  by  Baldiimcci,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-tMo. 
The  tomb-stone  in  the  church  of  Monte  della  Trinita  was  erected  liy  the  brothers  of  the  de- 
parted, John  and  Joseph,  who  retained  the  original  name  of  the  master  Claudius  Gelh'c, 
and  in  die  course  of  time  the  family  name  became  twice  repeated  by  the  additional  inseniiiii 
of  the  names  of  his  two  brothers  upon  the  stone. 

In  the  year  1S40,  by  order  of  the  French  Minister  of  the  Interior,  Claude's  remains- 
were  removed  to  the  chiu-ch  of  Saint-Louis-des-Fran9ais  in  Rome,  when  all  the  resilient 
French  painters  took  part  in  the  solemn  ceremony.  As  may  naturally  be  supposed,  the 
French  did  not  fail  to  embrace  the  opportunity  of  providing  a  suitable  inscription  for  the 
monument  to  their  countryman;  it  runs  thus:  "ia  nation  fran^aise  n'oublie  pas  ses  enfants 
celebres,  mhne  quand  Us  sent  m.orts  a  Cdtranger." 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  4 


26  THE    GALLERIKS  OF  VIENNA. 

It  may  be  observed,  however,  in  conclusion,  that,  at  the  present  day,  the  English,  and 
not  the  French,  are  the  \varmest  admirers  and  imitators  of  Claude.  The  former  possess  the 
most  extensive  coiuaieutaries  on  Lorraine's  works,  which  they  hold  in  high  estimation. 


THE  BACKGAMMON  PLAYERS, 


FRANZ  HALS. 


If  we  follow  up  the  Dutch  school  of  painting  from  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  to  the 
seventeenth  century,  we  discover  by  degrees  a  sensible  improvement  in  the  manifestation  of 
the  po«  ers  of  these  masters,  in  their  conceptions  and  representations  respectively.  The  close 
attention  to  detail  which  we  observe  in  the  A\orks  of  van  Eyck,  their  splendid  but  inanimate 
colouring,  the  irregularity  in  the  colouring  of  the  figures,  which  appear  to  belong  more  to 
the  sphere  of  reflection  than  to  reality,  gradually  vanishes.  A  moi-e  genuine  feeling  for  na- 
ture is  clearly  perceptible.  The  speculative  element  of  representation,  which  endeavovu's  to 
give  the  figures  a  loftier,  nobler  tone  than  natural,  and  to  a  certain  extent  dejirives  them  of 
the  effect  intended  to  be  produced  upon  our  senses,  by  and  by  subsides. 

A  greater  fidelity  to  nature  begins  to  develop  itself.  The  tints  arc  acted  upon  by  the 
power  of  light  and  air,— they  melt  into  and  agree  with  the  more  distinct  representation  of 
space.  The  figures  become  less  artificial,  and  the  surrounding  objects  more  consonant  with 
nature.  The  general  complexion  of  the  subject,  by  tlie  avoidance  of  irrelevant  collisions,  as- 
sumes a  more  life-like  appearance,  and  the  picture  displays  the  grade  and  c])aracteristic 
which  the  master  intended  'to  develop.  Painters,  like  Lucas  van  Leyden,  do  not  disdain,  in 
addition  to  the  conventionally  arranged,  divided  altar-pieces,  in  which,  if  possible,  the  whole 
of  the  Scripture  history  is  introduced— from  the  Flood  to  the  vision  of  the  Last  Judgment — 
to  cast  an  eye  to  the  occurrences  of  every  day  life,  and  to  enliven,  to  a  certain  extent,  what 
is  really  extinct  with  a  robust  type  of  comicality.  This  is  by  no  means  unconunon  in  the 
earlier  pictures  of  the  Dutch  school.  This  juxtaposition  of  the  refined  and  the  fantastical, — 
how  sadly  does  it  stand  opposed  to  the  sublime  simplicity  of  the  oft  touching  innocence  dis- 
played in  the  more  ancient  perceptions  ot  art  I 

•  While  the  imitators  of  van  Eyck  continued  to  paint  their  frightful  pictures  for  altar- 
pieces,  like  generals  on  the  day  of  battle,  with  an  innncnse  number  of  miniature  figures  drawn 
up  in  array,  it  was  found  necessary  to  introduce  more  substantial  and  more  n.itural  forms, 
which  really  gave  an  idea  of  a  scene  of  action ;  so  that  the  contents  of  the  })iece  became  more 
and  more  divested  of  the  symbolic,  and  a  more  cs]iccial  attention  was  directed  to  the  corporeal 
and  the  spiritual,  according  as  the  subject  might  demand,  and  in  accordance  with  tlic  impression 
intended  to  be  conveyed. 

The  Italian  school  soon  found  imitators,  and  the  Netlicrlandcrs,  througli  the  woiUs  of 
(^iientin  Mcssys,  discovered  the  importance  of  the  study  of  composition.     Tlie  celebratcil  black- 


i«iiiitliili!SitlltitnifiJtI[ftiraip!l(lf!!ft1ii!1!il!lil!!i!lflllfflt!ll!tlfllllftllllll 


I 


I 


^ 


TIIK  BACKGAMMON  PLAYERS,  APTKR  KKANZ   HALS.  27 

smith  oi'  Antwerp  too,  bc.-*ides  his  pathetic  works,  exhibited  his  giiim'nw  f/enre  pictures,  amongst 
which  his  "Two  Misers"  deserves  especial  notice.  In  addition  to  Messys  must  be  mentioned 
Bernd  von  Orley,  Jan  Mabuse,  or  Mnul)enge,  Jan  Schoreel  and  his  pupil  Ileniskerk  (Veen), 
and  Michel  C'oxis,  all  of  whom  endeavonred  to  tree  themselves  I'rom  the  old  system  of  man- 
nerism, and  attem|)te<l  a  new  walk  of  art  in  which  they  might  allow  more  scope  for  the  free- 
dom of  their  conceptions. 

The  ideal,  however,  becomes  lost  through  the  too  material  treatment  of  the  figures, 
which  deprives  them  of  their  grandeur.  The  Italian  concejition  of  the  ideal  has  not  taken 
root  in  the  Netherlands.  At  tiie  same  time,  the  representations  of  sacred  history  continue  to 
be  carried  on  under  more  profane  treatment  than  ever,  for  the  artists  begin  to  construct  their 
pieces  irom  ]iure  reality.  ' 

To  portrait  painting  may  be  ascribed  the  basis  of  the  before-mentioned  tendency.  In 
their  landscapes  it  is  likewise  equally  observable. 

A  number  of  portiait  figures,  for  the  most  part  void  of  interest,  are  thrown  together 
indiscriminately  into  a  group,  and  these  form  a  scene.  The  sin-rounding  objects  are  not  con- 
sidered. The  powers  of  the  painter  arc  also  not  considered.  Tlie  powers  of  the  painter  are  not 
adequate  to  give  a  determined  and  just  position  of  the  figures  within  a  given  space.  Hence 
it  is  th<^t  we  so  often  find  three-ciuartcr  figures  in  their  pictures.  But  to  make  amends  for 
this,  they  bestow  great  pains  in  the  painting  of  the  features,  the  beard  and  hair,  and  more 
[jarticularly  on  the  different  parts  of  the  (mostly  splendid)  costumes.  The  drawing  of  the 
figure,  ho«'ever,  is  evidently  faulty,  which  may  be  seen  in  those  subjects  where  the  figures 
are  draped  after  the  Italian  school  of  the  ideal.  The  strict  donatism  which  prevails  through- 
out this  class  of  subjects  can  alone  lay  claim  to  be  the  chief  interest  to  the  beholder.  Paint- 
ing has  arrived  actually  at  that  point,  that  it  throws  the  traditional,  the  good,  and  the  bad 
examples  of  earlier  periods  over-board,  and  they  stick  to  their  motto:  "Hie  gut  Holland  alle- 
wege ! " 

Still  they  had  not  arrived  at  the  cauicra  ohscura  style  of  painting, — the  dull,  precise 
copy  of  real  lile.  They  ever  endeavoured,  in  their  own  way,  to  charm  the  eye  by  the  intro- 
duction oi'  a  sustained  personification,  and  by  a  display  of  brilliant  colours.  There  are  war- 
riors, archer  companies,  remarkable  literary  characters,  astrologers,  &c.,  which  we  meet  with 
at  the  period  of  transition  in  the  paintings  of  the  Dutch  masters.  , 

One  of  the  most  renowned  of  th^se  painters  was  Franz  Hals,  who  was  born  in 
Mechlen,  in  1584.  Hals  always  considered  himself  a  Dutchman,  as.  he  had  spent  the  best 
])art  of  his  early  life  in  Harlem,  but  he  cannot  diso\vn  himself  a  Netherlander.  He  possesses 
considerably  more  intellectual  powers  than  liis  eotemporary,  Theodore  de  Kayser,  and  never 
enters  so  minutely  into  the  representation  of  his  original  as  Bartel  van  der  Heist.  Although 
Franz  Hals  paid  great  attention  to  the  laces  ol'  his  figures,  at  the  same  time  his  object  was 
to  paint  a  picture.  Hals  never  descends  to  the  caricaturist ;  and  if  some  of  his  portraits  were 
not  so  like,  it  was  because  he  considered  the  original  not  sufficiently  noble  to  be  copied  by , 
his  pencil,  and  he  beautified  it  according  to  his  fancy.  In  the  lights  and  colouring  of  his 
figure.s,  Hals  reached  a  remarkable  degree  of  soundness ;  his  drawing  is  perhaps  less  worthy 
of  being  mentioned,  inasmuch  as  if  is  seldom  discernible  from  the  heavy  drajieries  with  which 
his  figures  are  usually  attired :  his  heads  are  frequently  strikingly  small,  in  comparison  with 
the  tall,  stiff  bodies  which  belong  to  them. 

4* 


28  THE  (iALLKKlKS    OF  VIENNA. 

Tlie  picture  of  "The  Backjiamiuoii  Players,"  a  party  of  warrior-like  caparisoned  men, 
with  immense  hats  and  eijually  colossal  nether  garments,  shews  at  once  the  beauties  and  the 
failings  of  this  master.  The  correctness  of  the  representation  is  quite  as  great  as  that  ob- 
served in  the  cabinet  pictures  of  other  painters  at  a  later  period,  but  the  arrangement  of  the 
figui'es  appears  unconstrained.  We  observe  likewise  in  this  picture  tliat  the  heads  Ijcar  a 
systematic  regularity  of  features,  and  that  they  are  not  precisely  in  proportion  with  the  bodies. 
Tlie  swfird,  hanging  on  the  parallel  wall,  is  somewhat  intrusive,  as  it  comes  too  near  the  eye 
of  the  spectator.  The  figure  in  the  dark  dress  at  the  right  of  the  picture  is  Franz  Hals  him- 
self The  countenance  of  the  waitress,  who  is  smoking  the  pipe  of  one  of  the  gucstp,  is 
highly  amusing.  The  position  of  the  figure  sitting  immediately  before  the  waitress  is  any- 
thing but  agreeable,  and  the  arm  and  leg  'a  kimbo'  forming  acute  angles,  display  rather  an 
excess  of  freedom  on  the  part  of  the  painter. 

Franz  Hals  painted  numerous  pictures,  Init  they  are  seldom  found  in  any  other  than 
the  Dutch  galleries.  The  number  of  portraits  in  the  possession  of  private  persons  is  not 
knfA\u.  In  the  Oude  Mannenhds  (Knight's  Castle)  at  Harlem,  besides  many  other  smaller 
j)ortraits,  are  those  of  the  much  praised  city  rifle  band.  A  series  of  i)ortraits  by  this  master 
have  been  engraved  by  Suyderhoef.     They  consist  of  literary  men  of  the  day,  placemen,  &c. 

Hals  lived  in  rather  restricted  circumstances,  highly  respected  by  his  cotemporaries 
in  art, — amongst  whom  was  van  Dyck, — and  died  at  Harlem  in  1 666. 


A  TEASANT'S  WEDDING, 


DAVID    TEJUESS. 


The  genius  of  David  Teniers  is  essentially  humorous.  A  term  less  comprehensive 
would  not  sui'fice  to  express  the  universality  of  this  esteemed  master,  with  whose  works  we 
have  become  pretty  well  acquainted  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery  in  Vienna. 

This  Netherlandbr's  productions  are  to  be  found  in  the  sixth  saloon,  amongst  many 
other  little  dark  pictures  of  all  kinds.  The  })ictures  of  Teniers,  however,  from  their  sjirightly 
tone  of  colouring,  attract  attention  from  a  distance,  and  on  a  nearer  inspection  they  liecome 
truly  luminous.  Clear,  fresh,  and  fragrant  as  a  warm  May-day,  they  spi-ead  their  rays,  and 
the  pleasing  light,  the  clear  atmosjiherc  encircles  lively,  busy  figures,  which  are  as  correctly 
drawn,  coloured,  and  lighted  up,  as  if  reflected  by  a  mirror.  Peasants  ski[)ping  aliout  in  a 
round  dance  on  the  green  sward,  a  bagpiper  playing  an  air  in  honour  of  the  happy  pair.  The 
bride  wears  a  little  crown  on  her  head;  and  by  this  bridal  ornament  we  are  enlightened  as 
to  the  worth  of  the  good-natured  peasant,  who  is  grinning  from  the  bottom  of  his  heart,  and 
to  whom  the  village  beauty  gives  her  hand.  There  stand  the  hapjjy  pair.  Op])osite,  in  an- 
othei'  of  these  bright  pictures,  we  find  similar  figures:  the  scene  is  somewhat  different,  and 


^ 


V. 


A  PEASANT'S   WEDDIXG,  Ai'TER   DAVID   TEXIERS.  29 

the  dancing  appears  more  lively  and  frolicsome.  The  villajje  festival  is  followed  by  a  fair, 
with  all  its  animated  hurry  and  bustle. 

Having  once  carefully  viewed  these  three  pictures,  we  have  acquired  a  certain  know- 
ledge of  the  style  ol'  painting  of  Teniers  the  younger,  and  shoidd  scarcely  fail  t(j  recognize 
any  other  work  of  his,  wherever  we  might  happen  to  meet  with  it.  In  his  peasant's  wed- 
tlings,  country  fairs,  and  other  rural  festivitiVs,  we  have  seen  but  one  series  of  subjects  in 
which  Teniers  loved  to  indulge  his  humour,  and  here  he  has  certainly  given  full  scope  to  it. 
■But,  to  proceed.  Here  is  the  festival  of  the  "Archer  Corps  in  Brussels."  What  has  become 
of  all  the  peasants?  Does  not  Teniers  belong  to  those  Xi.'tlierlander  artists  who  excel  in  the 
representation  of  villagers,  and  the  lower  grades  of  society,  because  their  art  is  confined  to 
this  limited  sphere?  Teniers  shews  us,  in  his  pictme  of  "The  Archers,"  the  varied  phases 
of  life  which,  in  the  seventeenth  century,  were  to  be  found  in  the  proud  cities  of  the  Nether- 
lands. We  not  only  see  the  accoutrements  of  the  members  of  good  society  of  the  time,  l)ut 
are  enaWed  to  glean  some  good  ideas  of  the  manners  and  customs  of  that  period.  The  mental 
qualities  appear  in  the  changing  gradations  of  variety,  and  we  recognize,  in  the  featm-es  of 
the  ca\aliers  and  ladies,  a  refinement  and  intelligence  plainly  indicating  the  class  of  society 
to  which  they  belong. 

^^^len  we  consider  the  power  Teniers  possessed  of  throwing  interest  into  a  subject, 
the  contents  of  which  are  so  restricted, — for  instance,  a  girl  scrubbing  khchen  utensils, — we 
cannot  sufficiently  admire  the  chasteness  of  his  style,  and  the  manifest  care  with  which  he 
worked  out  his  idea.  He  does  not  confine  himself  to  the  pourtrayal  of  an  industrious  maiden 
busily  employed  amongst  her  pots  and  pans,  but  he  gives  these  accessories  with  such  truth, 
that  our  admiration  and  astonishment  are  equally  aroused;  their  arrangement  and  colours, 
br'illiant  as  they  are,  are  so  cleverly  managed,  that  they  form  a  subordinate  part  of  the  com- 
position. 

A  picture  of  a  larger  size,  which,  from  its  gay  colours,  has  long  attracted  our  notice, 
shews  us  the  artist  in  another  character,  viz.,  his  versatility  of  talent  and  his  clost-  observa- 
tion, in  his  extraordinary  imitations  of  the  \\orks  of  other  masters.  We  stand  before  the 
cabinet  pictiure  in  the  possession  of  the  Archduke  Leopold  Wilhelm  of  Austria.  A  party  of 
distinguished  personages  enter  the  sunlit  saloon  and  view  the  pictures,  fifty  in  nund^er,  with 
which  it  is  hung  round.  If  we  closel)'  examine  these  pictures  in  the  picture,  we  recognize 
most  accurate  copies  of  the  master-pieces  of  the  Italian  painters.  We  may  examine  these 
Liliputian  pictures  as  minutely  as  we  please,  without  fear  of  disajfjiointment.  Can  we  beheve 
it  possil:)le  that  all  the  pecidiarities  in  the  styles  of  Titian,  Coireggio,  and  Raphael  have  here 
been  preserved?  Such,  however,  is  the  case.  A  striking  proof  of  the  thorough  knowledge 
Teniers  had  of  these  masters,  and  of  his  powers  of  conception  in  the  delineation  of  cha- 
racter. 

This  painter  had  a  favourite  way  to  display  his  humour:  we  allude  to  those  singidar 
sacred  subjects  whose  hero  is  St.  Antonius.  An  old  man  witii  silver-grey  hair  and  a  long 
beard,  enveloped  in  a  monk's  cowl,  is  in  his  cell,  where  he  is  attacked  l>y  the  Devil,  who 
appears  in  the  figure  of  a  Flemish  peasant,  represented  with  one  eye  juid  a  cloxen  foot. 
Fantastic  figiu-es,  horrible  reptiles  and  vermin  from  the  bottomless  pit,  long-tailed  monkeys, 
bats,  and  antediluvian  monsters,  form  the  retinue  of  his  Satanic  majesty.  All  this  is  truly 
terrific ;  at  the  same  time  it  is  scurrilous  and  grotesque.    The  idea  of  the  Devil  endeavouring 


30  THE   GALLEIUES   OF   VXENKA. 

to  outwit  the  saint  certainly  borders  very  strongly  on  the  kxdicrous.  In  the  treatment  of 
these  "Temptations,"  all  the  brilliant  endowments  of  this  master  are  perceptible. 

The  first  impression  created  by  Teniers'  pictures  is  the  true  and  acute  perception  of 
character,  in  every  variety  of  figure  he  represents.  To  give  expression  to  these  peculiar 
distinctive  qualities,  he  uses  the  utmost  delicacy  in  their  treatment,  when  he  intends  to  repre- 
sent the  less  marked  peculiarities  of  his  figures ;  and  by  a  certain  forbearance  in  this  respect, 
— he  never  descends  to  the  field  of  caricatm-e.  This  characteristic,  it  is  true,  he  shews  us  in 
bold  relief,  more  so  than  it  would  appear  in  actual  life ;  but  this  is  not  his  main  point, — his 
aim  is  to  give  additional  interest  to  the  otherwise  correct  pourtrayal  of  nature,  in  which  he 
is  so  eminently  successful.  He  is  therefore  fullj-  warranted  in  giving  a  little  additional  force. 
He  uses  no  art  of  exaggeration,  he  is  free  in  his  style,  he  endows  his  figures  with  a  striking 
characteristic,  and  then  leaves  them  to  act  their  parts. 

This  harmless,  ingenious  critic,  who  never  gives  offence,  but  always  represents  cha- 
racter in  its  most  favourable  phases, — this  cheerfid,  genuine  humour,  unalloyed  with  satire, 
is  the  distinguishing  feature  in  the  works  of  Teniers  the  younger.  This  is  certainly  one  of 
his  chief  excellencies,  which  w'e  cannot  fail  to  admire,  and  we  often  indulge  in  a  smile,  with- 
out knowing  why,  when  we  view  the  genial  countenances  of  his  boors  following  their  rustic 
amusements. 

This  humour,  which  no  other  Netherlander  possesses  in  anything  like  an  ef|ual  degree, 
has  been  the  cause  of  his  pictiires  being  sought  by  the  highest  and  most  refined  personages, 
and  given  them  a  consequence  which  the  subjects  themselves  would  not  seem  to  claim, — a 
discrepancy  which,  by  the  extraordinary  brightness  of  the  colours,  together  with  other  ex- 
ternal beauties  in  the  pictures  of  this  master,  could  not  be  surmouiited. 

Louis  .XIV.  was  well  known  to  be  a  good  judge  of  pictures,  and  it  is  certain  that  the 
admu'able  works  of  Teniers  did  not  escape  his  notice;  however,  on  one  being  shewn  to  him, 
he  exclaimed:  "Qu'on  enleve  tons  ces  magots!"  The  King,  who  breathed  and  moved  in  the 
artificial  atmosphere  of  conventionality, — Louis,  the  great  Mogul  of  formality  and  pomji, 
whose  orcus  was  menaced  with  the  inscription  "humour,"  seems  instinctively  to  have  thun- 
dered out  against  the  hostile  element  in  Teniers'  "baboons."  '  In  the  present  more  healthy 
state  of  things,  Teniers'  pictures  rank  amongst  the  chief  ornaments  in  the  gallery  of  the 
Louvre  in  Paris. 

The  intellectual  Christina,  queen  of  Sweden,  appreciated  the  humour  whicli  enlivened 
these  pictures  of  Teniers.  She  gave  commissions  for  the  purchase  of  these  works  wherever 
they  might  be  met  with,  and  found  a  new  source  of  enjoyment  whenever  she  beheld  them. 
In  order  to  show  her  thanks  to  the  painter.  She  sent  him  a  massive  gold  chain  to  which  her 
portrait  was  attached. 

Besides  the  Swedish  queen,  Teniers  had  many  noble  patrons :  the  Iving  of  Spain,  the 
Bishop  of  Gand,  Don  Juan  of  Austria,  Louis  of  Bourbon-Conde,  and,  above  all,  the  ^Vrch- 
duke  Leopold  Wilhelm  of  Austria,  the  Stadtholder  of  the  Netherlands.  Of  all  his  cotem- 
poraries  the  last  named  possessed  the  richest  gem  of  Teniers'  hand,  and  the  cabinet  of  this 
prince  contained  many  of  those  copies  from  the  works  of  the  great  masters  which  have  be- 
come so  celebrated,  and  are  entitled  "Pastiches." 

The  accurate  and  ingenious  conception  of  character,  which  this  artist  displayed  in 
subjects  of  nature,  is  equally  perceptible  in  his  treatment  of  works  of  art.    The  rare  virtuoso- 


A  PEASANT'S  WEUDING,  AFTER  DAVID  TEMEUS.  31 

ship  with  which  he  was  gifted,  and  the  facility  with  which  he  used  his  pencil,  made  it  an 
easy  task  for  him  to  reproduce  the  peculiarities  of  style  and  the  essentials  of  the  different 
masters.  He  was  as  great  in  the  melting  harmony  and  charming  softness  of  Correggio,  as 
in  tiie  «;eemingly  strained  vigour  of  Albrecht  Diirer,  the  splendid  colouring  of  Eubens,  or  the 
fantastic  lights  of  Keiabrandt.  It  was  only  during  the  early  part  of  his  career  that  he  studied 
to  imitate  the  eminent  older  masters,  his  object  being  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  their 
treatment  of  light  and  tone,  and  to  discover  the  secret  of  their  management  of  colour.  When, 
at  a  later  period,  he  copied  the*works  oi'  otlier  great  masters,  he  contented  himself,  in  his 
own  peculiar  way,  with  seizing  ui>on  their  more  important  peculiarities,  and  worked  theiti 
out  to  a  greater  extent  than  in  the  originals.  Teniers,  in  a  few  hours,  could  execute  a  pic- 
ture after  the  manner  of  Rubens,  G.  Coquez,  Zorg,  &c.,  giving  the  spirit  and  feelings  of 
these  painters,  more  hinted  at  than  effected,  but  so  ingeniously  treated,  that  these  artists 
themsehes  were  prone  to  believe  that  they  were  the  works  of  their  own  hands. 

His  " Apres-dinerx"  pictures  were  painted  witli  even  more  rapidity  than  the  before- 
mentioned.  They  were  slight,  often  remarkably  genial,  coloured  sketclies,  and  found  their 
way  into  the  collections  of  those  lovers  of  art' for  whom  Teniers,  for  want  of  time,  was  un- 
able to  deliver  finished  pictures. 

The  Arch-duke  Leo[)old  Wilhelm  was  so  enchanted  with  the  eminent  talent  Teniers 
displayed  in  his  reproductions  of  the  beauties  of  the  various  painters  of  renown,  that  he 
commissioned  him  to  copy  the  best  pieces  of  his  choice  c(jllection.  Teniers  commenced  his 
labours  on  the  Italian  masters,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  his  pupils,  he  delivered  a  succes- 
sion of  two  hundred  and  fortj'-six  pieces,  which  were  engraved  by  the  best  artists  of  that 
time.  Most  of  Teniers'  copies  possess  undoubted  beauties,  great  correctness  of  outline,  slight 
treatment  of  the  drapery,  with  a  thorough  knowledge  of,  and  regard  to,  the  harmony  of  co- 
lours with  reference  to  the  local  tones.  A  great  deal,  however,  appears  to  be  misunderstood, 
and  parts,  which  in  the  original  belong  to  the  ideal,  are  here  reduced  to  simple  reality. 

David  Teniers  the  vounijer, — so  called  to  distinguish  him  from  his  father,  David  Te- 
niers  the  elder, — was  born  in  Antwerp  in  1610.  At  an  early  age  he  could  compose  a  sub- 
ject, and  paint  after  the  style  of  his  father.  The  elder  Teniers,  to  be  sure,  painted  scriptural, 
historical,  and  mythological  sulijects  as  well  as  many  of  his  cotemporaries,  but  he  followed 
his  o\\n  intuitive  \iews,  and  chose  his  living  models  according  to  his  fancy  at  the  moment. 
He  painted  numerous  pictures  of  boors,  musicians,  smokers,  &c.,  which  are  distiuguishalile 
from  the  son's  by  their  broad  humour  and  heavy  colouring. 

Notwithstanding  the  success  that  attended  these  representations,  as  though  stung  by 
conscience,  he  returned  to  his  old  style  of  sacred  and  mythological  subjects.  The  old  master 
had  made  the  discovery  that  a  natural  humour  would  combine  very  well  with  the  seriousness 
of  sacred  history.  He  painted  the  holy  Antonius  surrounded  by  distorted  demons:  this  was 
in  fact  an  especially  i'avourite  sidiject  of  his  son's. 

Teniers  the  younger  certainly  paid  his  tribute  to  Bilile  history  and  legends  in  many 
other  ]iictures ;  hut  he  was  at  the  same  time  a  painter  of  general  subjects.  One  of  his  greatest 
beauties, — but  to  which  we  have  at  present  only  alluded, — is  his  wonderful  colouring.  In 
his  best  pictures  it  is  truly  brilliant,  remarkably  clear  a#d  fresh,  and  for  all  that,  in  spite  of 
all  his  gay  colours,  they  are  not  warm.  His  pictures  must  he  seen  before  we  can  form  an 
adequate  idea  of  their  colours,  but   having  once  seen  them  we  can  never  forget  them,  and 


32  THE    GALLEIilES  OF  VIENNA. 

can  pick  them  out  from  any  number  of  other  pictures.  There  is  something  so  uncommonly 
lively,  such  a  motive  power  in  iiis  colours,  perfectly  harmonious, — still,  they  seldom  seem 
broad  enough,  and  give  an  idea  of  a  want  of  quiet  in  the  ense.mhle. 

Teniers  held  the  office  of  Keeper  of  the  Gallery,  and  First  Gentleman  of  the  Chamber 
to  the  Archduke  Leopold  Wilhelm.     He  died  at  Brussels,  probably  in  the  year  1690. 


THE  HERDSMAN'S  HUT, 


NICHOLAS  BERGHEM. 


The  pictures  of  Nicholas  Bei'giiem  lay  the  same  claim  to  our  admiration  as  a  pastoral 
poem.  Numerous  as  his  works  are  in  subjects  of  "Landscape  with  cow-herd,"  "The  Hunt," 
"The  Trfiveller,"  "Fishermen,"  and  "Peasants,"  his  fancy  is  inexhaustible — he  always  intro- 
duces us  to  something  new.  The  rich  mellow  colours  are  so  exquisitely  worked  upon  by  the 
effects  of  the  high  lights  which  he  introduces,  so  tridy  harmonizing  with  the  figures  and  the 
scenery,  that'  they  are  really  enchanting,  and  we  question  whether  they  have  ever  been  surpassed. 

Berghem's  pictures  are  easily  recognized.  His  general  effects  are  almost  always  the 
same.  He  moves  in  a  certain  sphere,  from  which  he  very  rarely  departs.  However  he  may 
change  his  theme,  we  invariably  distinguish  the  one  prevailing  sentiment.  And  yet,  this 
master,  apparently  so  ingenuous,  contrives  to  conceal  something  which  we  cannot  so  easily 
discover.  He  smiles  upon  us  with  childish  goodnature  when  we  ask  him:  How  is  it  that 
you  are  so  agreeable.  Master  Nicholas  ?  How  do  you  contrive  to  fill  us  witli  these  cheerful, 
charming  sensations, — this  feeling  of  contentment  which,  like  a  spell,  enchants  us  back  to  a 
time  but  till  now  almost  forgotten,  to  the  scenes  of  our  early  childhood? 

Master  Nicholas  smiles  in  his  sleeve,  and  when,  at  last,  we  have  found  out  the  means 
he  has  employed  to  pi-oduce  this  delightful  impression  upon  us,  he  smiles  again  that  we  are 
obliged  to  seek  these  where  he  has  so  kindly  prepared  everything  likely  to  assist  us  in  the 
discovery. 

We  see  the  herds  slowly  wending  their  way  in  the  direction  of  a  fragrant,  cooling 
■wood,  that  they  may  refres!)  themselves  after  enduring  the  broiling  rays  of  the  sun,  shining 
■upon  an  open  meadow,  or  over  the  gently  rising  hills  which  intersect  the  landscape.  Or  the 
cattle,  panting  with  heat  and  thirst,  reach  a  pure,  pellucid  little  stream,  into  which  they 
plunge  to  enjoy  the  coolness  and  refreshment  it  affords,  and  afterwards  composedly  wade 
across  it,  paying  a  visit  to  a  rich  meadow  on  the  opposite  side.  Sometimes  the  company  of 
oxen,  cows,  sheep,  and  goats  repose  and  seem  to  dream  in  concert.  Oft-times  they  shew  a 
refractory  spirit,  which  the  herdsman  and  his  wife  find  great  difficulty  in  subjugating.  The 
animals  bolt  off  in  a  gtiUop  in  order  k)  have  a  little  amusement  in  their  own  way :  the  herds- 
men, with  upraised  hands, -rim  in  all  directions  to  cut  off  their  path,  and  cry  with  all  their 
might,  but  in  vain— for  the  time  the  cattle   are  neither  to  be  forced  nor  reasoned  with.    The 


^ 


•J  *0v 


& 


i 


"& 


THE  HERDSMAN'S  HUT,  AFTER  NICHOLAS  BERGHEM.  33 

woats  too,  especially  the  young  ones,  frisk  and  frolick  about,  and  where  there  are  asses  and 
mules  the  herdsman  is  obliged  to  resort  to  the  application  of  his  thick  stick,  and  bestow 
some  heavy  blows  upon  these  animals,  which  kick  out  riglit  and  left,  before  he  can  bring 
them  to  their  senses  and  restore  proper  order  in  the  community. 

In  the  centre  of  a  smiling  landscape,  a  mountain,  gently  rising  on  one  side,  its  rugged 
summit  soaring  aloft.  How  fragrant  the  green  wood,  how  bright  the  sky!  The  sun's  rays 
are  so  powerfid  that  we  cannot  distinctly  discern  the  distance;  a  castle  appears  to  glitter  on 
the  horizon,  w  here  the  lords  of  this  paradise  dwell.  One  need  not  necessarily  be  the  owner 
of  it  in  order  to  enjoy  its  beauty.  Before  us  are  two  travellers,  a  man  on  foot  and  his  young 
wife  riding  a  donkey.  How  cheerfidly  they  pursue  their  journey  on  tlie  bank  of  the  little 
river  that  winds  ahjng  the  wood;  and,  see,  th6  inquisitive  dog,  with  snout  upraised,  seeming 
to  sniff  the  air  of  their  destined  halt  for  the  night! 

The  shades  of  evening  are  shed  over  hill  and  plain.  The  boat  is  being  shoved  into 
the  broad  part  of  the  river,  which  looks  like  a  little  sea.  ajjd  the  fishermen  are  prepai-ing 
their  nets.  In  the  distance,  on  the  other  side  of  the  meadow,  is  the  little  village,  over  which 
floats  the  evening  fog  like  a  s]iectral  veil.  The  shepherd  hoped  to  reach  home  before  night- 
fall. One  of  his  lambs  is  tired ;  carefully  he  takes  the  little  animal  under  his  arm,  while  his 
wife,  with  her  infant  at  her  breast,  gives  him  a  nod  of  approval. 

A  rugged  crag,  overgrown  with  creeping  plants,  and  here  and  there  a  bush  and  tufts 
of  moss.  The  herdsman  sits  sunk  in  his  own  thoughts  while  observing  the  young  damsel 
milking  a  cow,  and  whose  face  is  ])artially  inclined  towards  him.  The  herd  is  dispersed 
and  grazes  quietly  on  the  meadow;  we  see  far  into  the  distant  landscape,  which  jji-esents  an 
old  ruin,  and  the  scene  is  closed. 

Reapers  return  home  after  their  day's  ^^■ork,  and  are  making  ior  the  hospitable  roof 
of  the  farmer:  sportsmen,  on  foot  and  on  horseback,  hah  beneath  a  proud  projecting  cliff, 
and  ojjposite  to  this  fine  company,  in  another  picture,  is  a  poor  bird-catcher  before  his  hut, 
prepaiing  his  snares;  or  he  is  in  the  gro\c  distributing  his  decoys. 

We  might  continue  to  enumerate  the  subjects  which  Berghem  loveil  to  portray,  and 
after  all  do  nothing  further  than  bring  together  minutia;,  which  give  only  a  general  idea  of 
the  subjects  which  this  painter  chose  and  so  happily  detailed. 

It  is  important  that  we  should  have  a  correct  idea  of  the  effect  which  this  master 
practises.  It  lies  simply  on  the  conceptions  aad  combinations  of  detail  peculiar  to  him.  It  is 
generally  admitted  that  his  compositions  bear  the  stamp  of  perfect  conformity  with  the  prin- 
ciples of  the  picturesque.  Berghem  may  be  called  the  master  of  the  picturesque,  an  artist 
who  chooses,  forms,  and  arranges  his  subjects  so,  that  they  are  capable  of  supporting  an 
effective  mtroduction  of  light  and  colour. 

It  has  often  been  said  that  the  feeling  for  the  picturesque  in  Berghem's  pictures 
would  be  di8C0\ered  if  it  had  never  existed  before  him,  but  this  remark  is  not  founded 
on  truth.  The  qualifications  which  accommodate  themselves  for  the  reception  of  light 
and  colour  may  be  found  in  infinitely  gi-eater  proportion  in  the  works  of  many  other  masters. 
We  need  only  to  mention  Everdingen  with  his  waterfalls  and  coast  scenes,  which  are  ca- 
pable of  receiving  the  most  powerful  contrasts  of  light  and  shadow  and'  the  strongest  juxta- 
position of  local  tints ;  and  still  Everdingen  does  not  ascend  to  a  Salvator  Rosa. 

If  we  take  a  series  of  Berghem's   pictures,   and  enter  into  a  closer    examination  of 

Galleries  of  Vier.iin.  ."» 


34  THE  GALLEKIES  OF  VIEXXA. 

them,  we  discover  sufficient  jjroofs  that  he  possessed  neither  power  over  light  nor  of  colour. 
Although  dissimilar  forms  are  introduced,  tlie  light  is  never  forced  for  the  jiurpose  of  dis- 
playing his  splendid  eftects,  but  reminds  us  more  of  the  steady  light  tin-own  on  an  acade- 
mical figure.  The  local  colours  are  never  overpowering  in  order  to  produce  a  contrast  to 
the  general  tone;  the  latter  is  given  at  the  commencement,  and  the  local  colours  are  ren- 
dered subservient  to  it.  To  this  the  similar  effects  we  observe  in  so  many  of  Berghem's 
compositions  is  chiefly  to  be  attributed. 

This  repose  is  still  more  apparent  in  the  even  balance  of  power  between  the 
figures  and  the  landscape  in  which  they  appear.  In  the  best  days  of  this  master  we  rareh' 
find  a  picture  in  which  either  the  landscape  or  the  accessories  act  independently  of  each 
other:  their  united  powers  act  in  concert.  He  seldom  paints  his  figures  as  an  api)endnge 
to  his  landscape,  which,  without  great  injury  to  the  piece,  might  be  left  out,  nor  does  he  intro- 
duce his  landscape  as  a  mere  supjilement  to  the  story  which  the  figures  are  intended  to  tell 
of  themselves.  The  latter,  however,  are  never  of  such  paramount  importance  that  they  attract 
our  attention  from  the  landscape;  again,  this  never  appears  so  effective  as  to  detract  from 
the  importance  of  the  figures.  The  figures,  taken  Ijy  themselves,  offer  no  striking  attraction; 
we  admire  then  only  for  the  sake  of  their  arrangement.  The  same  remark  holds  good  with 
regard  to  the  landscape:  it  is  the  art  of  adapting  the  most  simple  means,  and,  by  an  inge- 
nious perspective  arrangement,  to  keep  the  objects  ajiart  from  each  other — an  art  not  essen- 
tially confined  by  Berghem,  as  by  Lorrain,  to  light  and  colour,  but  to  the  choice  of  an  ap- 
parently different  arrangement  of  his  scenery. 

Many  great  landscape  painters,  who  were  not  skilful  in  the  drawing  of  figures,  called 
Berghem  to  their  assistance,  and  got  him  to  paint  the  accessories  in  their  pictures.  Pictures 
of  this  kind  have  no  little  interest  as  curiosities.  The  fine  feeling,  however,  became  ma- 
terially tarnished  by  this  means,  for  there  could  be  no  feeling  in  conunon  lietween  Berghem 
and  these  painters :  and,  however  cleverly  these  figures  may  l)e  grouped,  they  look  as  if  they 
were  there  by  accident,  or  just  fallen  from  the  clouds. 

The  harmony  in  Berghem's  pictures  is  to  be  traced  to  a  very  simple  circum- 
stance. It  is  an  excellence  arising  from  a  decided  deficiency.  Berghem  could  neither  invest 
his  figures  with  a  jiositive  individuality,  nor  grace  his  landsca[)e  with  the  characteristic  due 
to  it:  he  is  content  to  (jroduce  an  indefinite  representation  which  conies  home  to  our  senses 
without  calling  up  any  fresh  ideas:  he  never  goes  beyond  tiiis  conventional  usage:  whatever 
he  takes  in  hand  his  treatment  is  precisely  the  same.  However  varied  the  subjects  of  his 
landscapes  the  one  prevailing  impression  remains  unchanged. 

To  coml)at  against  this  monotony,  Berghem  possesses  no  other  means  than  the 
change  of  arrangement  in  his  uictures:  but  here  his  eminent  uower  ceases.  The  groupin;; 
of  his  figures  exhibits  great  poverty  of  invention,  and,  as  far  as  concerns  the  forms  of  hi.s 
landscape,  they  are  always  varied  but  never  new.  Whatever  variation  he  may  introduce,  the 
same  theme  is  still  before  us.  He  may  be  compared  with  one  shewing  his  agility  by  cleverly 
dancing  over  a  number  of  eggs  without  breaking  one;  this  may  be  performed  in  a  thousand 
different  ways,  but  it  is  still  the  egg  dance:  or,  if  we  listen  to  the  tones  of  a  barrel  organ. 
however  \aried  the  airs  played  on  it,  we  never  can  get  rid  of  the  feeling  that  it  is  but  a 
barrel  organ  that  we  are  listening  to. 

It  is  said  that  this  painter,  so  superficial  in  the  treatment  of  his  subjects,  ne^  er  fimi'd 


THE  HERDSMAN'S  HUT,  AFTER  NICHOLAS  BEKGUEM.  35 

it  necessary  to  study  iroiii  nature,  which  fact  is  held  by  his  achiiirers  as  a  most  especial 
mark  of  excellence.  ^Vccording  to  the  [jeculiarities  wliicli  we  have  endeavoured  to  slicw, 
while  taking  a  careful  view  of  his  works,  such  study  xxould  have  been  of  no  use  to  him. 
The  general  apjjenrancc  of  objects  in  a  landscape  was  well  known  to  him,  and  this  was  suf- 
ficient for  his  purpose.  Berghem,  tiiorefore,  might  well  enjoy  his  ease  and  comfort  in  the 
castle  of  Bcntheim,  ii'om  the  window  s  of  which  he  could  overlook  the  bare  plains  around  it 
without  fretting  himself  about  the  poverty  of  the  scene  beneath.  The  master  is  said  to  have 
remained  in  this  castle  for  months  together  without  ever  putting  a  foot  outside  of  it. 

Like  the  German  poet,  Matthisson,  who  sang  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  at  the  same  time 
considered  the  appearance  of  nature  disturbed  him  instead  of  assisting  his  ideas,  Berghem  confines 
himself  to  his  imagination.  Here  the  artist  is  sovereign  and  exercises  his  own  powers  indepen- 
dently of  the  occasional  perverse  agencies  of  nature,  which,  in  the  works  of  other  masters, 
we  find  subdued  ;uid  fitted  for  the  spliere  in  which  they  desire  to  introduce  them.  The  very 
absence  of  these  landscape  characteristics,  so  very  decided  in  natiu'e,  and  softened  down  by  a 
conventional  treatment  in  the  pictures  of  other  painters,  is  essential  in  the  works  of  Berghem. 

Whatever  Berghem  represents  is  subjected  to  his  own  imagination.  He  introduces 
nothing  in  his  pictures  but  what,  according  to  his  perceptions,  he  is  wholly  master  of  and 
capable  of  maintaining  its  legitimacy.  Not  only  the  positions  of  his  figures  but  the  forms 
of  them,  with  their  detail — as  far  as  he  holds  it  necessary  for  his  purpose — ai-e  given  according  to 
his  caprice,  entirely  ad  lihitnni.  We  may  look  for  the  forms  of  branches,  trunks,  and  leaves  of  trees 
in  nature  in  vain,'  if  we  expect  to  find  them  as  he  for  the  most  part  portrays  them.  The 
local  tones  are  different  to  those  tbund  in  nature.  These  are  arranged  according  to  the 
effects  of  light  and  shadow  which  the  artist  chooses  to  introduce. 

The  clear,  clieerful  harmony  which  appears  together  so  wonderfully  in  the  plastic  and 
poetic  representations  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans — these  very  peculiar  and  charming  pro- 
perties which  so  characterize  their  works  of  art,  having  once  taken  a  firm  hold  upon  our 
feelings,  we  naturally  look  for  them  in  all  classical  works  presented  to  our  view.  As 
Berghem's  pictia-es  possess  in  an  eminent  degree  this  delightful  harmony  we  are  not 
disposed  'to  dispute  their  claims  to  be  termed  classical,  but,  to  a  certain  extent,  opine 
that  the  term  is  justly  a[)plicd.  The  disposition  which  antiijue  art  and  poetry  calls  up 
rests  entirely — perhaps  the  remark  is  -  unnecessary — on  the  combination  of  characteristics 
correctly  rejiresented  in  a  homogeneous  form.  Berghem's  pictures  comprise  all  the  qualifi- 
ciilions  as  far  as  this  is  concerned;  he  imparts  to  them  only  a  general  comprehensive  form, 
and,  though  he  indulges  in  spontaneous  variety  of  light  and  shade,  they  have  the  appear- 
ance of  similarity. 

Berghem  \\:is  born  in  Harlem  in  the  year  1(524,  was  tlie  contemporary  of  Jacob 
Ruisdael,  Everdingen,  the  two  Boths,  Weeuix  and  AVouverman,  and  equal  in  point  of 
birth  to  either  of  these  renowned  artists.  His  father,  a  somewhat  -second  rate  painter  of 
"still  life,"  whose  chief  excellence  consisted  in  his  repiresentations  of  sugar-plums  and  fish, 
determined  on  bringing  up  his  little  son  to  the  profession,  and  making  him  a  painter,  who 
should  rank  among  the  greatest  masters.  The  principal  means  called  into  requisition  for  car- 
rying out  his  purpose  was  the  free  and  frequent  use  of  the  cane:  this  was  a  duty  which  f he- 
elder  Berghem  imposed  upon  himselt,  and  he  did  not  fail  in  its  fulfilment.  At  a  very  early 
age  Nicholas  was  placed  under  the  tuition  of  Jan  van  Goyen,  in  whose  atelier  his  work  was 


36  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

frc'i|iiently  inspected  by  his  I'atlicr,  and,  as  a  general  rule,  on  these  occasions  he  ^vas  uninerci- 
f'ully  beaten,  in  order  to  make  him  I'eel  the  necessity  oi'  sticking  to  his  business. 

On  one  of  these  occasional  visits  of  his  fiither  Nicholas  ac({uired  thenamcof  Berghem. 
One  day  wlien  van  Goyen  saw  old  Nicliolas,  with  the  instrument  of  torture  under  his  arm, 
crossing  over  the  street  and  taking  the  direction  towards  the  atelier,  he  is  said  to  liave  called 
out  to  the  fellow  pupils  of  the  little  painter:  Berg  hem!  Berg  hem!  conceal  him  somewhere, 
that  his  father  may  not  find  him! 

Most  of  the  monograms  of  this  painter  are  written  in  a  tlitt'erent  way  to  this  nick- 
name. He  almost  always  signed  himself  Berchem,  less  freijueatly  Berghen,  and  very  rarely 
Berghem.    In  all  probability  he  had  no  family  name. 

While  with  van  Goyen  Berghem  painted  sea  pieces,  ships  under  sail,  and  studied 
the  representation  of  flowing  water.  The  sea,  however,  which  may  suit  those  of  an  heroic 
temperament,  was  not  calculated  to  please  the  mild,  timid  disposition  of  the  younger  Berghem. 
The  master,  who  later  in  life  so  attractively  represented  the  gentle  waters  of  the  running 
brook,  trembled  at  the  sight  of  the  majestic  waves  of  the  sea. 

Peter  Gi'e))ber  was  of  opinion  that  a  scholar,  who  was  thwarted  as  a  painter  of 
marine  pieces,  might  be  turned  into  an  historical  or  a  portrait  painter,  and  took  yoinig 
Nicholas  into  his  study.  Here  he  learnt  the  first  principles  for  the  grouping  of  figures,  but 
was  never  able  to  convey  any  expression  into  his  heads.  Nicholas  Mogaert  and  Jan  Willis 
soon  found  him  useful  in  assisting  them  with  the  accessories,  and  made  a  good  landscape 
painter  of  him.  He  had  however  not  forgotten  what  he  had  learnt  while  working  on  sea 
pieces  and,  when  he  first  established  himself,  he  followed  the  example  of  his  uncle  Baptistc 
VVeenix,  and  painted  scenes  oi  harbours,  but  he  failed  in  the  characteristic  of  his  figures. 
His  picture  of  "The  old  haven  of  Genoa"  will  bear  us  out  in  this  remark:  he  introduced  goats 
which  certainly  were  quite  out  of  their  place,  as  they  belong  only  to  ])asti>ral  landscape;  still 
they  paved  the  way  to  his  future  renown. 

Berghem  married  the  daughter  of  Jan  Willis,  and  l)egan  to  paint  pastoral  laud- 
scapes.  The  success  attending  these,  in  a  pecuniary  point  of  view,  was  advantageous  to  the 
artist,  but  his  wife,  who  was  of  a  selfish  and  domineering  disposition,  usurped  authority  over 
the  mild  and  obedient  husband,  and  insisted  on  his  devoting  his  energies  wholly  to  this  class 
of  pictui'es.  Berghem  was  an  indefatigable  workman,  and  wonderfully  piolific  with  his 
pencil. 

Invited  by  the  Count  of  Bentheim,  our  painter  took  up  his  abode  at  the  easfle  of  that 
nobleman.  His  return  to  Harlem,  which  he  so  nuich  desired,  was  frustrated  by  the  arrange- 
ments made  for  him  by  his  wife.  At  the  castle  of  Bentheim,  which  stood  on  a  solitary 
mountain  in  the  middle  of  a  flat,  barren  landscape,  Berghem  was  withdiawn  from  the  in- 
fluenfe  of  his  friends,  and  entirely  sidijected  to  the  humours  of  his  tyrannical  spouse.  Here  he 
worked  without  intermission,  scarcely  l)eing  allowed  to  take  exercise  in  the  open  air  suffi- 
cient for  the  recreation  of  one  of  a  sedentary  profession.  As  to  his  making  any  studies  from 
uatiu-e,  that  was  out  of  the  question,  for  the  dame  was  of  opinion  that  it  took  up  too  much 
time,  and  brought  no  grist  to  the  mill.  The  painter's  oI)servations  of  nature  were  tliereioie  limited 
to  the  view  from  the  windows  of  his  abode  at  the  castle.  Berghem,  while  at  his  easel,  was  ac- 
customed to  hum  a  tune  or  sometimes  to  sing  some  plaintive  air.  When  lie  ceased  his  sung, 
his  wife,   whose  chamber  was  over  the   atelier,  concluded  that  he  was  neglecting  his  work 


THE  HERDSMAN'S  HUT,  AFTER  NICHOLAS  BERGHEM.  37 

'and  busied  in  doing  something  else  which  slie  called  loss  of  time.  A  succession  of  loud 
•'stamps  from  a  foot  over  head  reminded  him  that  he  ought,  in  obedience  to  the  will  of  the 
'slave  driver,  liis  wife,  to  continue  his  labour  with  increased  energy. 

There  are  but  few  ratlier  large  galleries  which  do  not  possess  a  picture  of  Berghem's. 
The  most  splendid  collection  of  this  painter's  works  is  in  the  Imperial  Hermitage  at  St.  Pe- 
tersburg. Eighteen  of  his  pictures  hang  in  a  saloon  set  apart  for  them,  and  which  bears 
Lis  name. 

After  a  constant  endurance  of  unkind  treatment  from  his  inexorable  spouse,  his  powers 
began  to  fail  him ;  he  found  no  resources  in  himself.  His  finer  feelings  had  been  sacrificed, 
his  faculties  were  impaired;  he  continued  to  apply  himself  to  the  practice  of  his  art,  but  his 
"metal  was  tarnished."  The  peculiarities  of  the  master  were  gradually  fading  and  losing 
their  poetical  lustre.  The  localized  lights  vanished,  and  the  breadths  of  light  and  shadow 
stand  in  heavy  opposition.  But  even  during  the  latter  period  of  his  life  he  retained  one  of 
his  greatest  excellences — his  skies;  they  have  never  been  excelled.  During  his  imprison- 
ment his  wife  could  not  interdict  the  study  of  the  atmosphere  and  the  moving  clouds  in  the 
heavens. 

The  quiet  harmony  which  pervades  his  works,  the  clever  arrangement  in  his  groups 
of  figures,  together  with  their  want  of  sentiment,  of  pathos,  places  them  within -the  compre- 
hension of  the  youngest  student,  and  are  desirable  objects  of  imitation.  We  need  add 
nothing  further  to  our  remarks  tlian  that  Bcrgheni,  with  the  exception  of  his  skies,  is 
by  no  means  the  painter  from  whom  the  art  of  studying  nature  can  be  learned.  A  master 
may  learn  from  him  how  to  imite  into  a  harmonious  whole  forms  apparently  at  total 
variance  with  each  other.  This,  however,  can  not  be  attained  by  the  mere  imitation  of 
Berghem's  works. 

None  of  his  scholars  have  proved  similar  to  him  in  style.  Peter  de  Hooghe, 
Abraham  Begym,  Dirk  Maas,  Jan  Glauber,  M.  Carre  and  Soolemaker,  the  last  of  whom 
engraved  many  of  Berghem's  pictures,  attemjited  it,  but  w-ere  unable  to  compass  his  several 
beauties.  The  exquisite  arrangement  of  the  lights  are  perceptible  in  the  productions  of  each 
of  these  masters,  scholars  of  Berghem,  but  the  richness  of  form,  with  which  Bergheni 
endows  them,  is  wanting.  The  successors  of  Berghem,  when  they  tried  to  give  the  character- 
istic appearance  of  his  figures,  for  instance  Karel  Dujardin,  van  der  ]\leer,  Theodor  Visscher,  &c., 
fall  into  caricatui'e. 

.  Berghem,  besides  his  numerous  pictures,  left  drawings  and  etchings  which  are  much 
sought.  We  know  of  three  hundred  jjlates,  of  which  number  the  following  are  the  most 
valued:  "The  Shepherd  at  a  Spring,"  "Crossing  the  River,"  "The  Shepherd  and  Siiephcrd- 
ess,"  "Tlie  Piper."  The  drawings  of  this  master  are  chiefly  touched  in  with  a  pen  and 
worked  up  in  Indian  ink. 

Besides  Soolemaker,  the  best  engravers  of  the  old  school  of  Berghem's  pictures 
were  Lebas,  Aliamet,  the  Visschers,  Laurent,  Bankers,  and  Martenasi. 

Berghem  died  in  the  year  1683. 


38  THE    GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 


LANDSCAPE, 


U.  EOBBEMA. 


In  comparing  the  pictures  of  the  old  landscape  painters  with  those  of  modem  artists, 
the  paucity  of  means  with  which  the  former  worked  must  be  obvious  to  even  the  most  un- 
practised eye.  A  closer  examination  leads  us  to  the  conclusion  that  the  simplicity  of  the 
old  masters  is  fundamentally  richer  in  spirit  and  in  feeling  than  the  pomp  displayed  in  the 
works  of  the  "Landscape  inventors"  of  our  own  time. 

Since  the  regeneration  of  the  art  of  painting,  landscapes  have  been  highly  estimated. 
In  this  department  we  have  the  artistical  productions  of  the  idealists,  a  class  of  painters  who 
trouble  themselves  as  little  as  possible  about  nature;  their  chief  aim  is  to  "pi-oduce  something 
new."  In  effecting  this,  the  natural  requisites  of  a  landscape  are  but  imperfectly  represented. 
Again,  we  h^ve  realists;  these  seem  to  consider  nature  worthy  their  notice,  that  is,  they  con- 
descend to  cast  a  glance  at  her,  and  then  contrive  to  distort  the  appearance  of  natural  ob- 
jects, and  so  form  a  picture  out  of  them.  Then  come  the  eclectics,  who  "go  a  gleaning"  na- 
ture, finding  a  piece  here  and  there  which  they  introduce  in  their  works,  making  one  part 
accommodate  another,  thus  presenting  a  quodlibet  of  natural  objects  which  are  intended  to 
form  a  landscape;  but  with  all  their  artistical  arrangement  this  seldom  succeeds.  We  next 
come  to  the  legitimists,  who  paint  "views,"  and  practise  a  style  of  camera  obscnra  which,  if 
thoroughly  carried  out,  never  fails  to  please  the  multitude;  for  it  is  so — exactly  like!  Lastly 
come  the  decorators;  these  are  a  shrewd  race:  they  represent  nature,  as  it  appears,  but 
with  their  own  clouds  and  an  ad  libitum  effect  of  light  and  shade. 

We  have  landscapes  from  sacred  history;  of  these,  of  course,  we  can  say  nothing,  as 
they  are  not  to  be  found  on  earth:  historical  landscapes  pretending  to  illustrate,  or  rather  to 
offer  a  commentary  on,  certain  occurrences  mentioned  in  history,  nay,  more,  thej-  sometimes 
represent  events  which  are  to  take  place  at  a  later  period;  dramatic  landscajies  sliewing  us 
the  action  and  the  powers  of  nature  (the  antique  heroic  landscape  borders  upon  each  of  these); 
genre  landscapes,  strong  contingents  with  and  without  "lyrics;"  still  life  of  nature,  which  in- 
cludes every  object  that  can  be  conveniently  "pressed  into  the  service."  The  symbolic,  es- 
pecially in  the  two  first  genre  departments,  plays  an  important  part,  and  sometimes  is  found 
"distracting"  the  others. 

1  Hobbema's  pictures  are  very  unassuming  when  placed  in  oi)positi()n  to  these  pieces 

of  exuberance.  The  master  shews  us  a  barren  country  on  the  skirts  of  a  wood,  like  that 
often  seen  in  the  northern  countries.  Here  is  calm  repose,  seclusion  from  the  world.  From 
the  common  in  the  foreground,  with  its  rank  herbage  and  sandy  soil,  a  slightly  undulating 
plain  extends  into  the  distance,  presenting  no  charms  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach.  We  fall 
into  melancholy  musing  while  gazing  upon  it;  how  vast  is  this  desert,  and  how  limited 
the  circle  of  human  life! 

Meindert   Hobbema,  by  birth  a  Frieslander,  remained  true  to  his  native  home  and 


LANDSCAPE,  AFTER  M.  HOBBESIA.  39 

introduced  its  peculiarities  more  or  less  in  every  picture  he  painted.  In  inland  countries,  the 
singular  formation  of  the  clovids,  as  rejjresented  in  the  works  of  this  master,  is  seldom  or 
never  observaI)le.  The  sky  is  sometimes  dull,  but  this  is  relieved  by  layers  of  light,  long 
streaks  of  clouds,  which  break  through  and  are  sejjarate  from  each  other,  forming  a  broken 
•ray  of  light  high  up  in  the  pictures ;  or  he  introduces  semi-transparent  masses  of  watery 
clouds,  which  seem  elastic,  bloated,  and  ready  to  burst,  at  the  same  time  tliat  there  is  a  fleecy  de- 
licacy about  the  ridges  which  give^  them  an  appearance  of  buoyancy,  and  they  tend  to  light 
up  the  picture.  Nicholas  Berghem,  great  as  he  is  in  his  treatment  of  clouds,  «ill  not  stand 
the  test  oi'  comparison  with  Hobbema. 

Beyond  the  horizon  we  imagine  the  sea  to  be  in  the  immediate  vicinity.  Hobbema's 
tsees  are  those  of  East  and  West  Friesland ;  they  have  grown  in  spite  of  the  wind  and  weather, 
they  have  battled  against  the  cold  north-west  storm,  mingled  with  the  salt  spray  of  the  sea, 
are  firmly  rooted,  and  a  hardy  race.  Their  branches  are  firm  and  knotted,  and,  plentifully 
bedecked  with  leaves,  seem  to  bid  defiance  to  the  threatening  hurricane.  But  the  soft  at- 
mosphere sj)reads  an  exhalation  round  these  solid  forms  and  seems  to  envelope  them  as  if  in 
a  mourning  veil. 


^o 


Hobbema  never  departs  from  the  old  solemn  appearance  to  which  he  was  accustomed 
in  the  country  of  tis  birth,  and  endows  his  pieces  with  that  deep  feeling  of  melancholy, 
which  compensates  for  the  want  of  a  lighter  and  more  varied  style.  Although  we  find  no 
great  variety  of  form,  nevertheless  Hobbema  is  never  monotonous;  all  his  objects  are 
characterised,  even  if  the  detail  is  not  finely  worked  up  under  the  influence  of  ever  changing 
light.     Most  of  his  pictures  possess  a  charming  freshness ;  that  of  morning. 

The  accessories  in  the  works  of  the  painter  will  not  bear  a  too  severe  scrutiny;  we 
must  partially  overlook  them  if  we  desire  to  preserve  the  harmony,  otherwise  they,  in  a 
measure,  disturb  the  repose  of  the  picture.  Hobbema  painted  with  great  skill  ducks  and 
gfeese,  with  which  Friesland  may  be  said  to  be  alive,  but  he  rarely  could  portray  any  other 
figures.  His  accessories  were  usually  touched  in  by  Nicholas  Berghem,  van  de  Velde, 
J.  ^an  Loo, and  other  masters  of  his  day.  These  groups  of  figures  taken  separately,  that  is, 
independently  of  the  picture,  are  frequently  excellent,  but  they  by  no  means  possess  the  feeling 
Hobbema  intended,  are  not  identified  with  the  landscape,  and,  in  viewing  a  work  by  this 
master,  we  are  somewhat  inclined  to  wish  that  the  figures  were  not  in  the  piece.  They  be- 
tray too  much  the  type  of  the  Dutch  boor,  or,  as  may  be  more  partictilarly  observed  in  the 
studied  arrangement  of  the  groups  introduced  by  Berghem,  they  do  not  correspond  with  the 
deeply  sentimental  pictures  of  Hobbema. 

In  these  so  essentially  Frieslandish  characterised  landscapes,  what  idea  do  the 
phlegmatic,  worthless  figures  of  the  low  Dutch — whose  indolent  olficiousness  is  an  awkward 
parotlu  of  the  bucolic  poets  of  classical  antiquity — give  of  rustic  life,  the  occupation 
of  the  shej)herd?  They  are  clumsy,  inappropriate,  and  detract  from  the  poetry  of  the 
scene.  We  desire  to  find  here  those  tall,  fine-grown,  muscular  and  solid  forms  of  that  people, 
descendants  of  the  noble  German  race,  who  longest  maintained  the  rights  of  their  primeval, 
free  institutions,  so  that  the  language  of  man,  the  rustling  of  the  trees,  the  moaning  of  the 
wind,  or  the  bluster  of  the  storm,  may  act  in  unison,  and  the  works  of  the  master  sjieak,  not 
in  the  language  ofthe  "Mynheers"  but  in  the  old  "EalafryaFresena!"    (Hail  tree  Frieslander!) 


40  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Of  Hobbema's  career  little  is  known,  further  than  that  he  floiiri,shed  from  1660 
to  1670,  and  that  he  resided  for  a  long  time  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Amster- 
dam and  Harlem.  The  motive  in  many  of  his  pictures  seems  to  give  authenticity  to  this 
account. 


THE    MISER, 


ADKIAN   BEOUWEB. 


The  two  Adrians,  Brouwer  and  Ostade,  were  the  best  scholars  of  the  painter  Fred- 
erick Haes.  This  niggard  used  to  say  that  it  was  his  good  fortune  to  have  such  good 
scholars  only  as  exercised  their  talent,  under  him,  for  his  especial  profit,  for  when  they  feft 
him  they  did  so  ^vith  empty  pui'ses — beggars.  The  greatest  of  these  beggars  was  Adrian 
Brouwer,  and  after  him  followed  Adrian  Ostade. 

In  the  keen  perception  of  character  in  his  figures,  and  the  remarkable  facility  with 
which  he  painted  his  pictures,  we  have  no  difficulty  in  discovering,  in  Brouwer,  one  singled 
out  by  art  to  dehneate  the  inborn  expression  of  his  thoughts  and  feelings;  nor  need  we  de- 
vote much  time  in  examining  their  merits,  before  coming  to  the  conclusion  that  he  misused 
the  talent  with  which  nature  had  endowed  him.  Brouwer  possessed  no  elevated  feeling  for 
his  art,  he  painted  as  his  instinct  dictated,  and  in  the  treatment  and  arrangement  of  his  sub- 
jects we  in  vain  endeavour  to  discover  any  attempt  at  refinement  or  any  lesthetical  sentiment. 
His  aim  was  to  display  the  most  prominent  peculiarities  of  life  amongst  the  lower  classed, 
and  if  he  considered  this  sufficient  in  itself  to  stamp  a  man  as  a  gi-eat  artist,  there  can  be  no 
doubt  that  he  eminently  succeeded.  He  seems  to  have  abandoned  himself  to  the  portrayal 
of  one  set  of  subjects  which  were  essentially  of  the  common  grade;  there  lay  his  forte,  for 
he  considered  the  phases  of  refined  life  unworthy  of  his  attention. 

The  drastic  eflPect  of  this  master's  works  is  worthy  of  high  panegyric,  liut  as  this  is 
given  and  grounded  upon  the  striking  peculiarities  of  his  figures,  which  seem  to  dove-tail 
without  any  free-considered  arrangement  of  the  j)ainter,  it  calls  forth  a  wish  that  he  had  de- 
voted more  pains  to  the  delineation  of  character  which,  as  it  is,  borders  on  caricature. 

Brouwer  may  be  called  an  extempore  painter,  for  he  gave  us  only  what  he  thought  or 
saw  at  the  moment;  some  of  these  impromptu,  rich  as  they  are  in  chai-acteristic  touches,  leave, 
from  their  want  of  polish  and  delicacy  of  working  up,  an  appearance  of  unfinish  which^ends 
to  detract  from  the  otherwise  real  merit  of  the  performance.  The  intention  of  the  master  is 
obvious  enough  at  the  first  glance,  and  it  must  be  tacitly  supposed  that  his  intention  was  to . 
leave  the  connecting  points — the  tale— for  the  beholder  to  fill  up  from  his  own  po\\ers  of 
imagination.  Thus,  in  Bi-ouwer's  pictures,  we  see  plainly  that  the  master  was  capable  ol'  per- 
forming more  than  he  judged  it  necessary  to  present  to  us ;  and  herein  lies  the  secret  of  iiis 
works   being   so    attractive.     We    may    regard   them   as   \vr  do  masterly  outlines  which  the 


j^  ■' ''         r/:^'j^gua:^ 


'^/i<^%i^^^< 


^  /^... 


Tin;  JIISEIi,  AFTER  ADKIAN   HKOLWEi;.  41 

linuicr  oft'ers  for  our  iipproljntion,  leavini;  no  doiiht  u|ion  our  niiiids  tlint  lie  who  could  pro- 
duce such,  if  called  upon,  would  not  lail  to  till  tlieni  out  with  the  necessary  lights  and  sha- 
dows. Had  P>rouwer  carefully  pursued  the  premeditated  aim,  to  render  prominent  all  those 
details  Avhicli  require  the  precision  and  the  boldness  of  characteristic  cxj)ression,  his  works 
would  he  more  effective  than  Hogarth's  ;  for  he  possessed  an  equal  vein  of  humour  with 
that  great  [lainter. 

But,  as  before  observed,  this  master  in  most  cases  sat  down  to  work  without  any  pre- 
determined plan.  He  committed  his  ideas  to  his  canvas  with  the  same  case  as  they  presented 
themselves,  giving  character  to  the  chief  figure  by  a  kind  of  intuitive  jrower.  Obedient  to 
the  dictates  of  a  fleeting  moment,  Brouwer  was  often  naive ;  he  could  be  repulsive,  and  some 
times  falls  into  downright  cynicism.  Not  that  he  had  any  object  to  effect  by  it ;  he  simply 
left  the  arrangement  of  his  picture  to  chance,  without  considering  the  why  and  the  wherefore. 
He  depended  upon  his  genius  helping  liini  out.  The  great  neglect  he  manifested  in  the  (id- 
tivation  of  his  talents  is  much  to  be  lamented. 

Brouwer  was  born  in  Haarlem  in  the  year  1608.  His  jjarents  were  very  poor,  and 
Frederick  Hals,  in  a  paroxysm  of  compassion,  recci\ed  him  into  his  house  as  a  scholar.  The 
youth  probably  did  not  earn  sufficient  to  satisfy  his  master,  or  the  old  miser  may  have 
thought  the  expense  of  his  lioard  too  much; — at  all  events,  Brouwer  was  so  frc(|uently  beaten, 
and  in  every  way  ill  treated  by  his  master,  that,  in  despair,  he  ran  away  from  him.  He  went 
to  Amsterdam  where  lie  was  a  perfect  stranger,  and  was  necessitated,  in  order  to  settle  the 
score  at  the  tavern  where  he  had  taken  up  his  quarters,  to  jjaint  pictures  which  the  lamllurd 
disposed  of  to  his  guests.  He  here  came  in  close  connection  with  the  originals  of  his  pic- 
tures— boors,  sailors,  showmen,  gamblers,  and  Avomcn  of  abandoned  character, — and  at  lengtli 
found  himself  so  much  at  home  in  this  circle,  that  even  painters  who  were  not  fit  to  hold  his 
pallet  withdrew  in  disgust  from  his  society. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  years,  chiefly  spent  in  public-houses,  where  Brouwer  loved  to 
make  his  drawings  in  the  atmosphere  of  smoke,  bottles,  and  glasses,  he  had  sunk  to  such  a 
state  of  degradation,  that  he  could  scarcely  by  the  sale  of  his  pictures  afford  the  exciting 
liquors  which  his  constitution,  now  weakened  liy  his  excesses,  seemed  to  require.  In  the 
greatest  distress  he  applied  to  Eubcus,  who  not  only  generously  relieved  him,  but  had  him 
brought  to  Antwerp,  where  he  took  him  to  reside  with  him  under  his  own  roof.  For  some 
time  Brouwer  seemed  to  have  sufficient  command  over  himself,  and  commenced  a  new  course 
of  life.  After  a  while,  however,  he  returned  to  his  old  habits,  left  liis  noble  benefactor,  and 
sunk  so  deeply  in  the  gulf  of  dissipation,  that  this  time  it  was  beyond  the  power  of  man  to 
extricate  him.  He  again  lodged  at  a  tavern  of  the  lowest  rank,  totally  ruined  his  constitu- 
tion, and  died  in  an  hospital  in  the  thirtieth  year  of  his  age.  Rubens  shed  tears  over  the 
coffin  of  the  unhappy  man,  and  had  his  body  interred  in  the  Carmelite  church. 

Brouwer,  comparatively  speaking,  painted  a  great  many  pictures.  "The  Miser,"  in 
the  Czernin  Gallery,  is  more  lightly  treated  than  the  works  of  this  master  generally  are.  In 
all  probability  this  picture  is  a  portrait  of  the  picture  dealer. 


Galleries  of  Vienna- 


42  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


THE    KITCHEN-MAID, 


AN  UNKNOWN    PAINTEB. 


This  picture  is  painted  after  the  style  of  Gerard  Dow,  and  possesses  so  many  beauties 
that  it  may  be  considered  as  a  master-piece.  A  damsel,  surrounded  by  all  kinds  of  kitchen 
utensils,  is  sitting  at  a  window,  busily  employed  in  cutting  up  cucumbers.  In  the  immediate 
fore-ground  are  a  bright  saucepan,  a  primitive  lantern,  a  wooden  tub,  and  a  rope  of 
onions,  together  with  a  slauglitered  fowl,  the  feathers  of  which  are  painted  with  great  light- 
ness. The  face  of  the  damsel  does  not  bear  the  well-known  Dutch  cast,  but  looks  more  like 
a  Walloon,  or  that  of  a  French  girl;  the  head  is  very  carefully  treated:  the  whole  compo- 
sition full  of  grace;  the  introduction  of  light  is  eminently  successful;  and  the  execution  of  tlie 
picture  appears  more  light  and  free  than  elaborate. 


rOULTRY, 


MELCHIOR   HONDEKOETER. 


It  was  Still  very  early  in  the  morning.  The  inhabitants  of  the  good  city  of  Amster- 
dam lay  fast  asleep  in  their  comfoi'table  beds.  The  city  guard  and  the  watchmen  had  gone 
off  their  beat  and  returned  to  their  respective  domiciles,  to  make  up  for  their  loss  of  sleep  on 
the  preceding  night.  In  the  east  the  red  streaks  of  morning  began  to  shew  themselves 
amongst  the  pearly  gray  clouds.  Not  a  breath  of  air  was  stirring.  Tiie  creaking  and  groan- 
ing vessels  on  the  "Y,"  from  the  pondrous  Indiaman  to  the  fruit  barge,  lay  motionless,  as  if 
under  a  spell.  But  one  human  figure,  and,  it  is  true,  a  stout  one,  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  harbour — the  harbour-master,  who,  with  good  humour  in  his  counten- 
ance, was  lustily  puffing  away  from  an  old  black  pipe,  and  with  long  strides  was  making  the 
best  of  his  way  to  the  weather  flag,  in  order,  above  all  things,  to  ascertain  from  which  quarter 
the  wind  blew. 

In  the  last  house  of  one  of  the  environs  of  the  city  the  folks  were  not  only  u\>  and 
stirring,  but  were  quarrelling  with  each  other.  The  loud,  shrill  voice  of  a  female  in  angry 
dispute  was  heard,  and  the  subdued  voice  and  pacifying  replies  of  a  man.  The  discussion 
had  reached  such  a  height  that,  every  here  and  there,  from  the  windows  of  the  neighbouring 
houses,  might  be  seen  a  head  in  a  white  cap,  with  a  displeased  look,  endeavouring  to  ac- 
count for  this  untimely  disturbiuice. 


^/r     '    xC:2^^!^>^^.-<:^^i4Z^  .^.^^^c^'^^^^J^JJ^ziz^^^^ 


POULTRY,  AFTER  MELCHIOR  HONDEKffETER.  43 

^Ve  will  however  at  once  proceed  to  the  scene  of  action.  It  was  in  the  yard  of  a 
pretty  little  house,  admired  for  its  large  panes  of  glass  in  the  windows  of  the  upper  story; 
those  in  the  ground  floor  iieing,  similar  to  those  of  the  adjacent  houses,  formed  of  hull's  eyes, 
or  little  round  panes. 

The  yard  was  surrounded  with  Iiushes,  and,  in  the  middle,  neatly  gravelled.  Beneath 
a  lot  of  leafless  shrubs  were  seen  a  number  of  small  wooden  houses  with  a  great  many  boles 
cut  into  them,  from  which  the  heads  of  fowls,  ducks,  and  pigeons  protruded  witii  anxious 
curiosity.  In  the  middle  of  the  place  was  a  dove-cot  on  a  pillar— a  master-piece  of  Chinese 
taste, — painted  blue  and  red,  and  finished  off  \\  ith  a  yellow  edging. 

Under  this  dove-cot  one  of  the  contending  parties  had  taken  his  stand.  He  was  a 
slender,  pale-looking  man  of  about  forty.  A  dressing-gown,  profusely  ornamented  with  flowers, 
but  rather  the  worse  for  wear,  bung  about  his  lank  limbs;  his  smooth,  long,  light  hair  bung 
over  his  shoulders,  and  his  liead  was  decked  with  a  white  night-cap.  A\'ith  both  bands  he 
held  on  to  a  ladder  which  appeared  to  have  been  placed  there  as  a  barricade,  and  he  puflTed 
away  most  violently  from  a  wooden,  speckled  German  pipe. 

Opposite  to  him  stood  a  very  corpulent,  i-ather  good-looking  woman  some  ten  years 
younger  than  himself.  Her  rich  black  hair  was  bound  in  an  upward  direction,  somewhat 
after  the  manner  of  an  Indian  warrior's.  The  sleeves  of  her  niglit-jacket  were  turned  up  as 
far  as  the  elbows,  no  doubt  in  order  to  allow  free  action  to  the  arms. 

"This  confusion  and  disorder  cannot  go  on  any  longer,"  said  the  lady,  crossing  her 
arms  ov6r  her  proud  bosom,  "or  I  shall  be  ruined.  I  worry,  and  work,  and  bcithor  myself 
from  morning  to  night,  and  such  a  man — no — you  don't  deserve  to  be  called  a  man !  you're 

a  good-for-nothing  idle What?  you  work  as  much  and  more  than  any  other  painter! 

Do  you  call  that  working — painting  pictures  of  your  hens  and  chickens?  Things  that  no  one 
of  conunon  sense  would  hang  up  iu  their  rooms " 

"There  are  great  people,  gentlemen  who  sit  in  council,  that  have  pictures  of  mine  in 
their  possession,"  murmured  the  jiaintcr. 

"Well,  if  they  have  bought  your  painted  cocks  and  hens,  they  are  as  mad  as  you. 
What  have  you  done  then — like  other  painters — with  the  money  you  got  for  them?  That's 
what  I  should  like  to  know.  You  a  painter!  You  can  do  nothing  but  feed  your  hens  and 
your  pigeons — yes,  you  can — 30U  can  go  and  get  drunk  at  the  tavei-n." 

"I  must  go  somewhere  when  you  treat  me  in  the  way  you  do." 

"Because  I  can't  look  at  that  sinj}"  which  you  call  paintiiuf  without  my  heart  jumping 
up  into  my  mouth.  Why,  if  the  whole  lot  of  your  poultry  and  things  were  taken  to  market 
they  wouldn't  fetch  twenty  gulden;  what  would  the  ])ictures  of  them  be  worth?  If  a  live 
hare,  yes,  and  the  finest  that  can  be  had,  doesn't  cost  five  gulden — no,  not  two  gulden — 
surely  no  one  in  his  senses  would  give  fifty  for  a  painted  one I  know  better  tlian  thai ! " 

"Certainly  not." 

The  good  lady  advanced  towards  her  spouse,  thrust  her  hand  througli  the  ladder,  and 
seized  his  pipe. 

"Away  with  the  pipe!  If  you  reaUy  were  a  painter  I  would  sloji  the  pipe  for  you: 
but  now,  I  can  tell  you,  things  shall  take  a  difl'erent  turn.  You  don't  smoke  any  more  here; 
you  don't  paint  any  more  cocks  and  hens ;  for,  I  promise  you,  that  I  w  ill  wring  the  neck  of 
every  one  of  them  with  my  own  hand,  and  this  very  morning  send  them  to  market." 

fi* 


44  ■     THE  GALLEKIES  OF  VIENNA. 

"Theda,  pray " 

"Paint  men,  saints  or  boors,  shepherds  and  gipseys,  or  even  landscapes  like  little 
Niklas  Berghem — and  then  I'd  say  something  to  you,  1  should  be  satisfied.  But  I  tell  you," 
speaking  very  slowly  and  empliatiraily,  "there  '11  be  no  more  poultry  painted  under  my 
roof only  one  more  you  say?  I  know  them  all  before  you  take  up  yonr  ljrut-h!" 

"But  the  picture  I  mean  you  certainly  do  not  know,  my  dear!" 

"I'm  not  your  dear.  I  am  the  unhappy  wife  of  the  stupid  Melehior  Honrlekoeter. 
Your  dear,  indeed!  But  1  am  very  curious  to  know  what  fine  picture  of  poultry  you  have 
in  5'our  head  nfiw,  as  a  wind  up  to  your  stupidity." 

"Promise  me  to  let  my  birds  alone." 

"They  shall  be  killed." 

"But,  at  least,  not  to-day,  my  dear!  I  will  try  landscape;  but  I  confess  I  shall  lose 
all  my  spirit,  and  that  I  shall  not  l)e  able  to  work  if  I  can  no  longer  enjoy  the  sight— the 
only  pleasure  I  have — of  my  hens  and  pigeons." 

"Very  well,  then,  not  to-day." 

"Thank 'c,  my  dear!  You  ai-e  not  so  cruel  as  you  would  have  me  think;  no— no,  I'm 
sure  you  are  not." 

"But,  mind,  I  sha'n't  change  my  determination:  if  you  don't  attend  to  what  I  say,  and, 

instead  of  your  trumpery  hens,  paint  an  historical  or  a  landscape only  one  more  you 

will  paint  ?" 

"Only  one  more,  Theda!"  • 

"Very  well,  then,  I  have  no  objection.  I  have  supported  you  while  you  have  been 
painting  a  luuulred  of  these  daubs,  and  so  making  it  a  hundred  and  one  won't  much 
matter You  will  l)e  well  paid  for  tliis,  d'ye  say?" 

"No  doubt  of  it,  for,  in  Holland  at  least,  such  birds  have  never  been  seen." 

"They  are  as  large  as  horses  or  bulls,  are  they  not,  jMelchior?" 

"No,  no,  these  are  I'rom  Portugal " 

"Ah!  ah!  so  in  order  to  paint  these  you  mean  to  buy  them?  I  know  you,  I  see,  not 
another  word !" 

"I  do  not  tliink  the  proprietor  of  these  beautiful  creatures  would  dispose  of  them  at 
any  price  that  niigiit  be  offered  lor  them." 

"Tlianlv  tiod  for  that!  But  it  is  the  landlurd  of  the  tavern  who  is  the  [iroprietor? 
Then,  instead  of  spending  your  time  there  all  the  afternoon,  you'll  please  to  go  early  in  the 
morning  to  make  your  stiulies,  and " 

"It  is  the  harbour  commissioner  who  has  had  them  sent  over  from  Lisbon.  When 
I  have  painted  iliem " 

"There  will  be  an  end  of  the  poultry  daubing." 

"Then,  I  say,  Theda,  you  will  be  reconciled  to  tlicse  subjects,  to  this  kind  of  picture, 
because  I  shall  receive  a  price  for  it  equal  to  that  paid  ior  the  best  historical  ]ucture  or  land- 
scape.    No  one  in  all  Holland  will  be  able  to  exliihit  a  similar  j)icture." 

The  dame  by  degrees  became  pacified,  and  at  length  condescended  to  enquire,  in  a 
tone  a|)proaching  the  amiable,  whe.n  Master  jNIelchior  Hondekoeter  intended  to  begin  his  last 
work,  in  the  art  of  painting  the  ])ortraits  of  cocks  an<l  hens,  that  was  to  immortalize  him. 

"That   depends   upon   you,  my  dear!     I  don't   know  whether  you  intend  to  give  me 


POULTRY.   AFTICR  :\IEr,t'II10U  nOXDKlvOKTER.  45 

any  breakfast  or  not  this  morning.  After  all,  I  can  do  without  it,  if  you  tliinU  it  better. 
AWll,  if  I  am  not  to  have  any,  I'll  lose  no  time,  but  set  to  work  at  once,  for,  you  know,  the 
hens  are  always  in  the  best  humour  of  a  morning!" 

Dame  Hondekoeter  eyed  her  husband  with  somewhat  of  a  suspicious  glance.  At  the 
first  moment  she  felt  inclined  to  think  that  his  last  remark  might  have  been  connected  with 
an  ironical  allusion  to  herself.  ITpon  second  thoughts,  however,  when  she  beheld  his  honest 
countenance  unchanged  and  his  obedient  demeanour,  she  soon  ju-rived  at  the  conclusion  that 
her  husl)and  was  so  thorougldy  sim|)le  minded  as  to  believe  that,  like  herself,  the  hens  really 
had  their  good  and  their  bad  humours. 

Shaking  lier  head,  she  went  in-doors,  with  a  firm  conviction  that  she  had  done  some- 
thing for  historical  and  landscape  painting.  While  she  was  engaged  in  preparing  the  soup 
for  liis  breakfast,  INIelchior  enjoyed  the  rare  satisfaction  and  pleasure  of  feeding  his  favorites, 
without,  while  thus  occupied,  being  borne  down  by  the  bursting  of  a  cloud  of  abuse  from  his 
better  half. 

The  poor  painter  clapped  his  hands  with  childish  delight  as  his  favorites,  one  after 
another,  came  towards  him,  looking  timidly  after  their  enemy,  the  Vrow  Hondekoeter,  and 
gave  him  to  understand  by  their  rcspcelfid  beliaviour,  and  the  expression  of  their  cackling 
tones,  how  much  they  sympathized  witii  him  touiliing  the  treatment  he  received  from  his 
wife. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  master  was  almost  overpowered  by  a  niunber  of  pigeons  which 
flitted  and  cooed  about  him,  as  though  he  had  been  a  wheat-sheaf.  He  went  to  a  drawer, 
and  brought  out  two  handfuls  of  corn,  which  the  pigeons  jjicked  up  with  undisguised  signs 
of  joy. 

With  hasty  springs  and  fluttering  of  wings  came  the  hens  to  glean  the  corn  which  the 
pigeons  in  the  jo>ful  moment  had  scattered  beneath  the  cot.  The  turkey-cock,  too,  with  his 
mates, — came  in  battle  array,  casting  a  look  at  the  kitchen  door,  as  if  they  expected  a  piece 
of  wood  to  be  throwii  at  them  by  the  good  house-wife, — advanced  in  full  ])arade,  and,  with 
their  gobbling,  assisted  in  the  concert. 

Last  of  all  came  the  majestic  cock,  marching  slowly  like  a  cautious  general. 

"Come,  Jack,"  said  Melchior,  liolding  out  his  hand,  "you  need  not  be  afraid.  Say 
Good  morning;  do  you  hear?" 

The  cock  put  himself  into  the  necessary  position,  clapped  his  wings,  and  crowed  three 
times  so  heartily  that  the  dame  held  her  hands  to  Iter  ears.  The  noble  bird  then  began  to 
show  his  tricks  without  the  Avord  of  conmiand.  He  laid  himself  down  on  the  ground  as  if 
lifeless.  Melchior,  taking  his  handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  rolled  it  up  into  a  ball  and  threw 
it  down  the  yard;  upon  which  Jack  instantly  rose,  and  with  outspread  wings  ran  after  it  and 
brought  it  back  to  his  master.  He  then  stood  erect  before  his  patron  like  a  halberdier  of  the 
worshipful  city  council.  Melcliior  commanded:  "Eight!  left!  march!  halt!"  and  the  bird 
went  through  the  exercise  as  well  as  any  sergeant.  He  likewise  went  through  "acade- 
mical" positions.  With  the  feathers  of  his  neck  bristled  up  and  wings  extended,  he  remained 
stock  still  till  Melchior  commanded  a  change  of  position. 

"And  you  are  to  be  killed!"  muttered  Hondekoeter,  presenting  the  noble  creature  a 
few  pieces  of  sugar  which  he  had  contrived  secretly  to  shp  into  his  pocket. 

The  Vrow  called,  and  Melchior  hastened   to  take   his  seat  before  the  steaming  egg 


46  THE    GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

soup.  He  had  seldom  been  so  happy,  for  as  a  general  rule  his  breakfast  had  chiefly  con- 
sisted of  a  larger  or  smaller  quantity  of  abuse,  which  the  Vrow  dished  up  according  to  her 
humour.  If  he  had  had  tlie  courage,  this  morning  he  would  certainly  have  rewarded  his  wife 
with  a  kiss. 

In  good  spirits  Hondekoeter  dressed  himself.  His  spouse  brought  him  iiis  best  waist- 
coat or  jerkin,  his  hat  with  large  feathers,  which  was  almost  as  good  as  new,  a  large  falling 
collar,  worked  by  her  own  hands,  and  a  long  Spanish  cane  with  a  silver  knob.  Poor  Mel- 
chior  exhibited  a  stately  figure  when  he  left  his  dwelling  and  directed  his  steps  towards 
the  city. 

He  proceeded  to  the  "Prince's"  Quay,  upon  whicli  the  house  of  the  harl>our-master  was 
situated.  On  the  outside  of  the  house,  near  the  door,  a  large  board  was  put  up,  on  which,  in 
gold  letters,  was  written,  for  the  information  of  captains  or  merchants  who  might  require 
his  services,  where  this  worthy  personage  was  to  be  met  with  at  all  hours  of  tlie  day.  Accord- 
ing to  the  information  on  the  board.  Mynheer  van  Welter  was,  at  this  moment,  to  be  found 
at  his  own  private  residence. 

Van  Welter  came  across  the  hall,  inlaid  with  porcelain,  to  meet  the  painter. 

"IMynheer,  I  have  come  to  beg  a  favour  of  you." 

"You  have  no  occasion  to  beg,"  replied  the  harbour-master,  surveying  the  unknown 
person  that  addressed  him,  and  evidently  astonished  by  his  modest  demeanour.  "I  am  here 
officially  to  attend  and  render  services  as  well  to  the  poorest  cabin  boy  as  to  the  first  burgo- 
master.   What's  in  the  wind?" 

"I  have  heard  that  you  have  Portuguese  fowls,  Mynheer " 

"Well?"  said  van  Welter,  removing  his  pipe. 

"I  am  a  great  admirer  of  these  fowls " 

"Not  to  be  sold,  Mynheer!" 

"I  would  not  rob  you  of  your  favorites.  But,  perhaps  you  would  have  no  objection 
if  I  were  to  paint  a  few  of  your ' 

"What  the  devil.  Mynheer!  Do  you  suppose  my  fowls  require  painting  witli  a  white 
and  red  water  line,  and  to  be  tarred  all  over  like  a  ship?  I  can  assure  you  that  my  fowls — 
especially  the  cock — are  so  beautifully  marked  that  they  don't  want  any  of  your  colouring, 
my  good  friend.    No,  no,  be  off  with  you." 

Hondekoeter  had  no  little  trouble  in  making  the  harbour-master  comprehend  his  real 
intention.  At  length,  however,  he  became  clear  on  the  point,  and  jilacing  his  tliirk  fore-finger 
on  his  still  thicker  nose  he  said. 

"You  surely  don't  mean  to  say  that  you're  going  to  paint  such  a  picture  as  you  talk 
of  merely  for  your  own  anuisement !  How  you  can  manage  to  take  off  these  fowls,  \\  ith  all 
their   fine   feathers,  that   one   can  distinguish  one  fmni  the  other,  as  one  can  a  brig  from  a 

schooner,   or  a  frigate   from  an  East  Indiaman,  1  don't  know— But  I  don't  see  why 

such  a  picture  with  my  fowls  siiouldn't  be  as  good  in  its  way,  and  look  as  well,  as  my  good 
ship  'Franz  and  Meta'  there — " 

He  pointed  witli  his  }iipe  to  the  wall  on  \xhich  some  one,  with  a  rough  luuul,  had 
painted  a  three-master  in  full  sail.    Melchior  laughed. 

"My  picture  would  certainly  look  better  tlian  tiiat." 

"You  seem  to   have  a  pretty  good  idea  of  your  own  abilities,  Mynheer!"  said  the 


POULTRY,  AFTER  MELCHIOR  HONDEKOETER.  47 

harbour  master,  out  of  humour.  Well,  that's  all  the  same  to  me.  What  do  you  want  for 
your  picture  of  my  fowls?" 

"Mynheer  van  AVelter,  I  have  not — at  least,  I  do  not  think  I  said  that  my  picture 
was  intended  for  you.'' 

"Not  for  me!  For  whom  then!" 

"For  whoever  will  give  me  the  best  price  for  it." 

"That's  something  new  to  me!" 

"But,"  continued  Hondekoeter',  with  more  firmness  of  voice,  since  you  have  asked  the 
price,  I  must  tell  you  that  the  piece  when  finished  will  be  worth  at  least  a  hundred  gulden." 

"A  hundred  gulden!  AVhy,  you  must  be  joking  with  me  I  A  hundred  gulden!  And 
the  man  who  painted  my  three-master  had  two  gulden  a  day  wages,  besides  his  eating  and 
drinking,  and  a  glass  of  gin  morning  and  evening  into  the  bargain.  It  has  just  struck  seven 
o'clock ;  I  hope,  friend,  you're  not  drunk." 

Mynheer  van  Welter  pointed  with  his  pipe  to  the  door.  The  painter,  however,  was 
not  to  be  got  rid  of  so  easily.  Melchior,  it  is  true,  was  timid,  amounting  almost  to  weaknes.-^, 
but  when  once  excited  he  developed  a  singular  degree  of  obduracy,  as  his  wile,  to  her  great 
discomfort,  had  often  experienced. 

"Mjmheer,"  began  Melchior,  "you  have  spoken  in  a  most  insulting  manner  respecting  me 
and  the  art  I  profess.  You  may  consider  yourself  luck}-  that  I  am  not  of  a  quarrelsome 
disposition,  otherwise  I  would  cause  you  to  be  taught  manners  at  the  city  hall. 

Van  W^elter  was  speechless  from  astonishment. 

"By  Jove!"  he  grunted,  at  last,  "I  never  came  across  such  a  craft  as  you  in  all  my 
life.  First  of  all  you  tell  me  that  I  have  to  pay  a  hundred  gulden  for  the  picture  of  my  own 
poultry,  and  then,  after  I  tell  you  the  truth,  you  are  down  upon  me  like  a  landshark  of  a 
lawyer,  and  put  on  the  screw  in  a  legal  way  to  force  out  of  me  what  you  know  is  my  own. 
But  I'm  not  going  to  bother  m}self  about  you — my  steward  may  see  what  he  can  do  wiih 
such  a  queer  fellow  as  you." 

"Mynheer  van  Welter " 

"  I  won't  hear  a  word ! " 

"But  you  attend  patiently  to  the  poorest  cabin  boy." 

"A  cabin  boy  is  made  of  very  different  stuflP  to  what  you  are." 

"When  I  assure  you  that  I  never  had  the  least  idea  of  defrauding  you,  that  you  are 
labouring  under  a  wrong  impression "' 

"You  mean  to  say  that  I  don't  understand  you?  That's  all  nonsense!  I  have  never, 
in  all  my  life,  had  so  much  bother,  even  with  the  commander  of  the  Amboin  fleet,  as  I  have 
had  with  you  and  your  poidtry  |)ainting." 

"I  hope,  before  I  leave,  you  will  have  a  more  generous  feeling  towards  me." 

"Indeed  I  shall  not,  Master  Painter;  we'll  be  good  friends,  only  the  sooner  you  take 
yourself  off  the  better  I  shall  like  you!" 

"Well  then!    The  pifture  I  intended  to  |)aint  shall  cost  you  nothing?" 

"What?" 

"I  refuse  to  sell  it  to  you.  There  are  plenty  in  the  Netherlands  who  can  appreciate 
art,  and  Melchior  Hondekoeter  enjoys  his  share  of  renown.' 

"Well,  now,  have  vou  done?'"  asked  van  Welter  breathing  hard. 


48  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

"Yes  Mynheer.    The  only  wish  I  have  is " 

"What,  not  done  yet?" 

"Of  course,  on  that  account  I  came  here.  Give  me  permission  to  stay  a  day  or  two 
in  your  poultry-yard  that  I  may  sketch  those  beautiful  birds,  and  that  is  all  I  desire.  I 
assure  you  1  want  nothing  more." 

"I  have  no  pouHry-yard — the  fowls  run  about  in  my  garden.  If  I'm  not  to  have  the 
picture  of  my  own  poultry,  you've  no  right  whatever  to  take  their  likenesses.  Whoever 
wants  to  have  a  picture  of  Portuguese  fowls  may  do  as  I  did — have  them  sent  from  Lisbon 
or  Oporto." 

"Mynheer  I  could  not  have  supposed  you  so/levilish  envious." 

"It's  you  that  are  so  devilish  envious,"  cried  van  Welter,  nearly  ])urple  witJi  rage. 
You  d — d  hungry  dauber — you  shall  catch  what  you'll  not  like!    Here — Henryk!" 

A  thick-set  little  man  with  the  physiognomy  of  a  hobgoblin,  holding  in  his  hand  a 
rake,  coming  from  the  garden  entered  the  room. 

"Henryk,  kick  this  fellow  out  of  the  house.  Hit  him  on  the  head  with  the  rake  if  he 
makes  any  fuss.    March!  d'ye  hear?  March!" 

Van  Welter  threw  down  his  pipe,  claj)ped  liuth  hands  ttirough  his  liushy  hair,  over 
his  ears,  and  retired  to  his  room. 

Henryk  regarded  the  intruder  with  a  look  of  suspicion. 

"If  you  touch  me  with  the  rake,"  said  Hondekoeter,  beginning  to  grow  red  with  anger, 
"I  shall  draw  my  sword." 

"O,"  returned  the  other,  "we'll  not  begin  the  day  with  an  act  of  murder.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  go,  and  we  shall  be  very  good  friends." 

"Shew  me  your  Portuguese  fowls,  and  111  not  remain  another  moment.  And,  besides, 
I  will  give  you  something  for  yourself." 

Henryk  scratched  his  head. 

"Come  again  in  half  an  hour,"  he  stuttered  out,  "and  then  master  will  not  be  at 
home.  But  take  care  and  do  not  come  to  the  house.  As  you  go  along  by  the  canal  you  come 
to  a  wall  with  a  little  red  door — wait  there  till  I  come." 

Hondekoeter  withdrew.  As  soon  as  he  got  out  he  commenced  his  search  for  the  door 
mentioned  by  Henryk.  Scarcely  had  he  taken  his  post  when  the  harbour-master  passed,  but 
he  was  so  excited  that  he  did  not  observe  the  painter.  In  a  few  minutes  Henryk  put  his 
head  out  of  the  door. 

"Now  is  the  time,  Mynheer!    But  first  of  all  I  nuist  see  the  colour  of  your  gulden." 

Hondekoeter,  sighing,  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  drew  from  it  the  promised  re- 
ward. A  beautiful  garden  was  before  him.  Here  was  a  great  quantity  of  poultry  running 
freely  in  all  directions.  The  experience  of  the  painter  soon  discovered  the  Portuguese  fowls. 
He  took  out  his  sketch-book  and  began  to  draw. 

"Holla!  What  are  you  doing  there?"  enquired  Henryk,  looking  over  his  shoulder. 
"If  you  mean  to  draw  you  must  pay  extra.  And,  another  thing,  you  must  find  a  place  to  sit 
in  where  they  cannot  see  you  from  the  house." 

"I  will  very  willingly  pay,  but  where  can  I  find  a  place  where  my  view  will  not  be 
interrupted?" 

"You  must  set  into  the  hen-house." 


POULTRY,  AFTER  MELCHIOR  HONDEKOETER.  .J 9 

Hondekoeter  crept  into  the  hen  house  and  took  his  view  from  the  air  holes  above. 
Notwithstanding^  the  ineonvenience  of  the  situation  he  succeeded  in  what  he  desired,  and 
in  the  course  of  two  hours  more  he  had  committed  to  paper  sketches  of  several  fowls 
and  also  one  of  a  turkey-cock  that  was  strutting  about. 

Master  Melchior  returned  home  in  triumph.  The  Vrow  listened  to  the  relation  of  her 
husband's  heroic  exploit,  and  looked  at  him  and  his  invaluable  drawing  alternately. 

"I  don't  know  which  of  us  two  was  born  a  fool — you  or  I,"  at  last  she  broke  out. 
"What  in  the  world  is  there  in  these  fowls  to  interest  any  one  in  his  senses?  Are  they  not 
things  wliich  may  be  seen  running  about  every  farm-yard?" 

"In  every  farm-yard  in  far  distant  Portugal,"  added  the  painter  with  an  important 
mien.  "But  not  here  in  the  Ketherlands.  I'll  give  you  a  thousand  gulden  if  you  can  shew 
me  a  specimen  of  these  fowls,  provided  it  be  not  the  original  of  what  you  see  on  this  sketch. 
The  comb,  the  beard,  the  position  of  the  feathers  in  the  neck,  the  very  uncommon  variety  of 
colours — in  short,  I  beg  you,  if  you  mention  these  fowls  at  all,  do  speak  of  them  with  admiration." 

"I  shall  not  dispute  any  more  on  the  subject.  I  expect  you  to  keep  your  word  and 
let  this  be  the  last  of  your  nonsensical  pictures  of  poultry." 

"But  if  this  picture  should  create  a  sensation?    If  it  should  fetch  a  high  price?" 

"I  won't  be  the  wife  of  a  paltry  poultry  painter  any  longer!  I  tell  you  again  for  the 
last  time,"  screamed  the  dame. 

Poor  Melchior  well  knew  what  this  shrill  tone  of  his  wife  meant,  and  that  it  was 
useless  to  attempt  a  reply.  He  closed  his  sketch-book,  and  went  noiselessly  upstairs  into  his 
work-room. 

In  about  fourteen  days  the  picture  was  finished,  and  exhibited  in  the  window  of  one 
of  the  most  respectable  picture  dealers. 

On  the  very  first  day  of  its  appearance  in  the  show  window,  a  very  smartly  dressed 
little  man,  ^vith  lace  collar  and  ruffles,  pompously  demanded  to  speak  with  the  painter. 

"Whom  shall  I  announce  to  Mynheer  Hondekoeter?"  encjuired  the  good  Vrow,  eying 
the  stranger  from  head  to  foot. 

"My  name  is  Dom  Joao  di  Hereira  y  Saldanho  da  Monc^ao '' 

"Are  you  come  to  make  a  fool  of  me  with  your  slang?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  rephed  the  little  gentleman,  twirling  his  mustachios.  "I  am 
the  Portuguese  Consul,  appointed  by  his  majesty  the  King  of  Portugal,  and  accredited  by  the 
General  States." 

"And  you  have  come  about  the  Portuguese  poultry?" 

"Not  about  the  poultry  that  are  here  now,  nor  about  the  Portuguese  poultry  which 
may  hereafter  find  its  way  here,  but  about  the  picture  painted  by  one  Hondekoeter,  and 
placed  in  the  window  for  sale.  I  must  possess  that  picture,  even  though  it  be  already  dis- 
f)0sed  of." 

"The  picture  is  sold,"  said  the  dame,  with  great  firmness  of  demeanour,  placing  her 
long  broom  immediately  before  herself  like  a  musketeer. 

Melchior,  with  palette  and  pencil  in  his  left  hand,  and  maul-stick  in  the  right,  had 
descended  the  little  staircase  which  led  to  his  room,  and  peeped  anxiously  and  full  of  cu- 
riosity over  the  banisters. 

Galleries  of  Vieuna.  7 


50  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

"My  dear,''  said  tlie  painter  in  a  somewhat  uncertain  tone  of  voice,  "are  you  not  in 
error  when  you  say  that  the  "Portuguese"  are  already  sold?" 

"They  are  sold  1  tell  you,"  and  she  struck  the  ground  violently  with  her  broom,  in 
order  to  add  foi-ce  to  the  tone  in  whicli  she  uttered  the  M'ords.  "1  sold  the  picture  myself 
for  a  thousand  gulden " 

"A  thousand  gulden!  that  makes  a  great  number  of  reis — about  five  hundred  thousand, 
I  believe." 

"Do  they  reckon  their  money  in  your  country  in  half  farthings?"  asked  the  Vrow 
snappishly. 

"We'll  not  enter  upon  any  dispute  concerning  the  circulating  medium  with  us," 
answered  Dom  Jdao.  "I  repeat  my  wish  to  purchase  that  picture,  and  even  at  the  advanced 
price  of  fifteen  hundred  gulden." 

The  dame's  0308  sparkled. 

"Most  noble  Sir,"  said  she  in  a  humiliated  tone,  you  seem,  after  all,  to  have  more 
sense  than  at  first  I  gave  you  credit  for.   Please  to  walk  in,  and  we  will  talk  the  matter  over." 

This  day  seemed  to  be  intended  for  that  in  which  poor  Hondekoeter  should  have  an 
opportunity  of  revenging  himself  for  all  the  troubles  that  he  had  so  long  and  patiently  en- 
dured. A  very  short  burly  man,  with  a  very  short  jjipe  in  his  mouth,  which  protruded  over 
a  very  short  chin,  the  perspiration  dropping  from  his  brows,  pushed  through  the  little  door 
of  the  room,  accosted  Vrow  Hondekoeter  by  a  careless  nod  of  his  head,  nearly  knocked  off 
the  Consul's  cap,  and  groaning,  sank  heavily  into  a  large  arm-chair. 

"How  hot  it  is!"  grunted  the  stranger,  blowing  clouds  of  tobacco  smoke.  "Good 
morning  Mrs.  Fatty!    Of  course,  you  are  the  poultry  painter's  wife?" 

"My  husband  does  paint  poultry,  I'm  sorry  to  say,  but  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself  to  speak  to  me  in  that  way.  x\nd  if  you  don't  bciiave  yourself  properly,  I'll  shew 
you  the  door  with  the  handle  of  this  broom?" 

"Blexen!  I  thought  to  pay  you  a  compliment.  Don't  you  know  nie?  I  am  the  ship- 
owner Klaas  Janszon  Klaasen " 

"Then  you  are  a  very  rich  man." 

The  ship-owner  nodded  phlegmatically. 

"But  in  points  of  politeness  I  can  tell  you  you  are  very  poor;  take  this  gentleman  as 
a  pattern;  it's  true,  I  cannot  pronounce  his  name,  but ■ — " 

"I  know  him.  Where  is  your  husband?  but,  to  judge  from  the  melody  you  sing,  I 
should  take  it  you  hold  the  reins  of  government  in  this  house. — To  cut  the  matter  short,  I 
am  come  to  purchase  the  picture  of  the  Portuguese  poultry." 

"Allow  me  to  observe,"  said  Dom  Joao,  with  a  somewhat  uneasy  manner,  that  I  have  a 
prior  claim  to  this  work." 

"That's  all  the  same  to  me!  That  picture  shall  be  mine,"  replied  Klaas.  "Come! 
woman!  let's  to  business — your  price?" 

"But  Sir,"  said  the  Consul  quite  confounded,  "how  long  is  it  since  you  have  taken  a 
fancy  to  pictures?" 

"I?  I  know  nought  about  pictures.  I  only  want  to  annoy  my  neighbour,  that  obstinate 
old  harbour-master — that's  all.  I  have  just  heard  from  the  second  burgomaster  that  Welter 
has  lodged  a  complaint  in  court  against  Melchior  Hondekoeter  for  having,  without   his  per- 


POULTRY.  AFTEU  MELCHIOR  HONDEKOETER.  51 

mission,  painted  the  portraits  of  iiis  Portuguese  things,  and  that  consequently  he  lays  an  em- 
bargo upon  the  sale.  Well,  he  is  awaiting  the  decision  of  the  court,  and  so  I  have  made  up 
my  mind  to  purchase  the  picture  and  to  carry  on  the  law-suit,  and  I'm  very  much  mistaken 
if  I  can't  find  ways  and  means  of  giving  old  Welter  a  bellyfull  of  annoyance,  and  ultimately 
throw  him  overboard!" 

"But  why  begin  in  this  way,"  asked  the  Consul. 

"Because  van  Welter  has  annoyed  me.  I  wanted  to  buy  his  garden,  to  build  upon.  I 
must  build  another  warehouse,  and  that  Welter  knows  very  well.  He  sent  me  word  tliat  his 
garden  should  remain  las  e;arden  for  his  cocks  and  hens  to  walk  about  in.  Is  n't  tliis  enouojh 
to  drive  any  reasonalile  man  out  of  his  wits? — So,  what  is  the  price  of  the  picture?" 

"IMynheer  Consul  has  offered  fifteen  hundred  gulden,  but  it  is  already  sold,"  said  the 
painter's  better  half. 

"Blc.ren!  It  must  be  an  immense  picture!" 

"You  have  not  seen  this  masterpiece?"  asked  Dom  Jaoa  astonished. 

"Not  I,  I  care  nothing  about  it;  and  if  I  never  set  eyes  on  it,  what  do  I  care!  All 
I  want  is  the  satisfaction  of  annoying  that  old  harbour-master.  Now,  little  woman,  out  with 
the  price — • — What  do  you  say  to  two  thousand  gulden?" 

The  dame  fidgetted  about,  standing  on  each  leg  alternately.  She  had  never  been 
in  so  desperate  a  dilemma.    She  considered  for  a  few  minutes;  and  made  up  her  mind. 

"We  will  let  the  matter  drop  for  to-day  and ' 

"No,  it  must  1)6  settled  to-day!  '  cried  the  ship-owner. 

"It  is  on  account  of  the  first  purchaser,"  said  the  Vrow.  "We  must  get  rid  of  him,  and 
I  am  quite  certain  that  he  will  not  like  to  pay  two  thousand  gulden.  Write  me  a  few  lines, 
that  you  are  willing  to  give  two  thousand  gulden  for  the  picture  already  delivered  to " 

Klaascn  drew  a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  wrote  as  she  desired. 

"But  j'ou  have  not  put  your  name  to  it;  only  a  'K'  with  three  crosses " 

"My  good  woman,  that  is  the  signature  of  my  father  who  is  dead  and  gone.  I  never 
sign  in  any  other  way ;  and,  let  me  tell  you,  that  a  bit  of  paper,  the  size  of  my  finger,  with 
these  three  crosses  upon  it,  would  stand  good  in  Holland,  aye,  even  in  the  East  and  West 
Indies,  for  a  million.    Here,  take  the  paper." 

The  Portuguese  Consul,  who  knew  the  ship-owner,  seemed  to  relinquish  all  hope  of  be- 
coming the  purchaser,  and  silently  withdrew  from  the  scene  of  his  mortification.  He  \\as 
soon  after  followed  by  Klaasen,  who  left  in  a  very  different  mood. 

As  soon  as  both  had  left  the  house,  the  Vrow  whirled  her  broom  in  the  air,  and,  con- 
sidering her  corpulence,  danced  about  with  extraordinary  activity. 

When  the  happy  couple  wei'c  left  to  themselves,  they  exchanged  glances  something 
after  the  fashion  of  two  combatants  who  have  been  engaged  in  a  desperate  fray.  Honde- 
koeter  seemed  anxious  as  ever — the  dame  triumphed. 

"Wife,  I  do  not  quite  understand  what  you  have  been  about.  I  think  we  ought  to 
have  parted  with  the  picture,  without  drawing  the  bow  too  tight." 

"You  don't  understand  me!  We  must  be  gainers,  let  the  affair  take  what  turn  it 
may — here  is  this  paper  of  the  ship-owner's.  Do  you  think  the  harbour-master  will  suffer 
himself  to  be  outbid  by  his  enemy?" 


52  THE   GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

"But  how  do  you  intend  to  let  the  harbour-master  know  that  the  shii^-owner  means 
to  involve  him  in  an  expensive  law-suit?" 

"You  will  please  to  take  your  hat  and  stick,  and  call  upon  him." 

"In  order  that  I  may  get  a  drubbing,  wife " 

"You  are  afraid!    Then  I'll  go  myself." 

The  good  wife  retired  to  her  chamber,  and,  in  about  half  an  hour,  returned,  glowing 
like  the  full  moon  when  the  stormy  clouds  have  passed  over  her.  She  had,  during  this  short 
time,  dressed  herself  in  the  most  costly  robe  that  her  wardrobe  afforded  and  in  a  cap  which 
was  worth,  at  least,  twenty  five  gulden — to  say  nothing  about  the  gilt  plates,  as  large  as  the 
palm  of  a  hand,  which  she  wore  over  her  ears- 
Armed  with  Klaasen's  paper,  the  dame  set  out  for  the  purpose  of  paying  a  visit  to 
van  Welter.    That  gentleman  received  her  in  liis  garden. 

"I  am  the  wife  of  the  artist  who  painted  your  Portuguese  fowls." 

"I  am  sorry  for  it." 

"What  mean  you  by  that.  Mynheer?" 

"I  mean  to  say  that  you  are  the  wife  of  a  very  disreputable  man.  Your  husband 
might  just  as  well  have  stolen  my  poultry  as  to  paint  them  without  my  consent.  In  either 
case  he  is  equally  a  thief." 

The  dame  was  stinig  by  this  reproach  of  the  harbour-master,  but  she  soon  recovered 
herself. 

"According  to  your  views,  all  the  rights  which  an  artist  enjoys  would  be  done  away 
with,"  she  replied.  "If  he  is  only  suffered  to  paint  that  which  belongs  to  him,  he  would  i-arely 
jiaint  a  house,  a  castle,  a  ship,  a  tree,  or  a  landscape.  That  is  the  only  recompense  bestowed 
upon  the  poor  painters,  that  they,  by  means  of  their  art,  are  able  to  make  every  thing,  in  a 
certain  way,  their  own  property;  not  only  your  pitiful  cocks  and  hens,  but  even  the  most 
beautiful  women  in  all  the  Netherlands,  and  the  sun  and  moon  into  the  bargain."' 

"Pray,  madam,  what  are  your  commands?" 

"I  was  about  to  inform  you  that  the  picture  which,  to  my  sorrow,  has  caused  so 
much  unpleasantness  is  at  your  service." 

"I  have  already  told  your  husband  that  I  will  not  have  it.  I  won't  have  copies  made 
of  my  poultry.    The  picture  shall  be  destroyed." 

"Very  well;  there  are  people  who  will  take  the  side  of  my  husband.  Your  neighbour, 
the  ship-owner  Janszon,  has  been  waiting  long  enough  for  an  opportunity  to  vex  you,  to  em- 
broil you  in  a  law-suit,  and  punish  you  for  your  disobligingness " 

"What  has  Janszon  to  do  with  the  picture?"  enquired  the  harbour-master,  seeming  to 
take  more  interest  in  the  conversation. 

"The  picture  is  liis  property;  according  to  this  document,  he  has  bought  it  for  two 
thousand  gulden — judge  for  yourself  whether  he  will  so  easily  be  induced  to  let  you  have  it 
for  the  purpose  of  its  destruction." 

The  harbour-master  di'ew  his  sj^ectacles  from  his  waistcoat -pocket  and  studied  every 
individual  letter  in  the  paper  given  to  the  Vrow  by  the  ship-owner.  To  the  astonishment  of 
the  dame  he  quietly  returned  her  the  paper,  saying: 

"I  must  say  you  have  negociated  this  aflfiiir  cleverly,  but  it  shall  be  of  little  use  to 
you.  Such  a  piece  of  intrigue  cannot  be  played  a  second  time,  I  can  tell  you.    Go  home  again 


THE  GOLF  OF  BAIA,  AFTER  C.  R.  RAUCH,  53 

— I'll  see  about  this.    Do  not  trouble  yourself  about  going  to  Janszon,  for  I  tell  you  I  shall  l)e 
there  before  you.     You  shall  suffer  for  your  trickery,  I  promise  you." 

The  dame  held  the  paper  tight  in  her  hand,  persuaded  that  she  held  the  means  of 
compelling  the  ship-owner  to  pay,  at  all  events.  AVhen  arrived  at  his  house,  she  was  informed 
that  the  harbour-master  was  there,  and  engaged  in  an  important  consultation  with  Janszon. 
Confident  of  success,  but  tormented  by  a  certain  little  mysterious  uneasiness  Vrow  HondeUoeter 
returned  home.  She  had  no  sooner  entered  the  house  than  she  began  with  the  unfortu- 
nate wight  her  husband. 

"This  comes  of  your  confounded  poultry  painting.  There  is  no  doubt  that  we  shall 
get  the  money,  but  for  all  that,  we  cannot  stand  against  these  two  rich  people,  if  they  choose 
to  come  to  an  understanding  with  each  other." 

What  the  dame  said  turned  out  correct.  The  harbour-master  determined,  under  any 
circumstances,  not  to  be  cajoled  by  the  detestable  painter,  made  up  matters  with  the  ship- 
owner. He  offered  to  sell  him  half  the  garden,  and  to  pay  half  of  the  price  agreed  upon  for 
the  picture,  on  condition  that  it  should  be  placed  at  his  disposal. 

On  the  following  day  Hondekoeter's  picture  was  exhibited  in  one  of  the  most  fre- 
quented streets,  with  the  following  explanation:  "Two  honest  burghers  of  this  city  have 
been  forced  to  pay  two  thousand  gulden  for  this  picture.  They  will  present  the  picture  to 
any  one  who  will  prove  the  picture  is  worth  more  than  the  half  of  the  above  named  simi." 

From  that  day  forth,  notwithstanding  he  had  received  the  two  thousand  gulden,  poor 
Hondekoeter  was  an  unhappy  man.  He  considered  himself  disgraced — through  the  avarice  of 
his  wife,  it  is  true — and  in  order  to  drown  his  cares,  he  gave  way  to  the  destructive  influence 
of  wine.  He  seldom  worked,  and  then  endeavoured  in  vain  to  produce  a  good  landscape.  All 
his  feathered  favourites  perished  from  want  of  care  and  attention,  and  his  greatest  favourite 
of  all,  the  cock,  who  would  obey  his  commands  with  alacrity,  was  the  last  that  was  slaughtered 
by  the  hand  of  Vrow  Hondekoeter,  after  she  had  spent  the  two  thousand  gulden.  The 
painter  was  reduced  to  the  lowest  degree  of  poverty,  and  died,  in  consequence  of  his  ex- 
cesses, in  the  year  1695.  Shortly  after,  the  picture  of  the  Portuguese  poultry  was  purchased 
for  a  large  sum,  and  placed  in  the  collection  of  the  Governor  General  of  the  Netherlands. 


THE  GULF  OF  BAIA, 

AFTEB 

C.  R.  BAUCH. 


The  ancient  splendour  of  that  Paradise,  Campania  feliv,  is  vanished.  The  island  formed 
by  the  hand  of  man,  whose  aggregate  once  encompassed  the  enjoyments  of  life  of  the  rulers 
of  the  world ;  the  classic  ground  on  which  trod  Caesar,  Pompey,  and  Marius,  Lucullus  and 
Seneca,  is  now  trod  only  by  poor  fishermen,  except  when  by  chance  a  solitary  stranger  ap- 


54  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

pears,  to  feast  his  imagination,  to  ruminate  on  the  long  gone  past,  and  to  mourn  over  its 
fallen  greatness.  The  magnificent  villas  of  the  noble  Romans  are  destroyed:  the  temples  of 
Venus,  of  Diana,  and  of  Mercury  exist  no  more;  all  lie  in  confused  heaps  of  ruins,  amongst 
vrhich  creep  the  lizard  and  the  snake,  sometimes  disturbed  by  tlie  researches  of  the 
archaeologist. 

Nature  in  this  delightful  spot  of  ground,  as  if  ojjposcd  to  the  fragile  structure  of 
human  art,  is  fresh  and  healthy  as  it  was  centuries  ago.  The  sulphurous  springs  of  Poz- 
zuoli  continue  to  hiss  and  bubble  as  in  the  olden  time,  although  no  old  Roman  takes  off  his 
toga  and  refreshes  his  muscular  frame  with  the  steam  arising  from  them.  The  caves  in  the 
rocks  are  still  open  for  the  reception  of  guests,  but  are  visited,  comparatively,  by  few  of 
those  emaciated  victims  of  fi^shion,  who  seek  means  for  the  re-establishment  of  an  injured 
constitution.  The  havens,  once  glittering  with  purple  sails,  arc  now  occupied  only  by  clumsy 
sulphur  vessels  and  fishermen's  barks.  Baiae,*  the  garden  of  Italy,  lay  on  the  even  sea-shore, 
surrounded  by  a  chain  of  green  mountains.  Putcoli,  now  Pozzuoli,  skirted  the  splendid  bay 
on  the  south.  On  the  north  coast  the  eye  could  reach  as  far  as  the  light-beaming  Misenum. 
The  strand  between  these  "two  horns  of  the  silver  bay,"  when  viewed  from  the  sea,  ajjpeared 
like  one  city,  for  its  temples,  villas,  cultivated  grounds,  and  villages  covered  an  iminterrupted 
space  down  to  the  very  shore. 

The  view  from  the  land  was  not  less  charming  than  that  from  the  sea.  Near  Puteoli 
rose  the  Taurus,  then  a  delightful  landscape  with  villas:  amongst  the  last  was  one  of  Cicero's. 
The  scenery,  when  viewed  from  the  Taurus,  must  have  been  magnificent.  At  a  short  distance 
from  Baiae  was  the  lake  of  Averno,  darkly  flowing,  and  overshadowed  by  Cyprus  trees 
which  gave  it  a  mournful  appearance.  In  the  neighlioiu'hood  of  the  lake  was  the  cave  of 
the  sibylline  oracle  of  renowned  memorial.  Cumac,  the  Greek  ancestral  colony,  the  Styx — over 
which  the  souls  of  the  departed  Iiad  to  cross — the  Elysian  fields,  the  great  harbour  of  Mi- 
senum, which  held  the  Roman  fleet,  close  to  the  harbour  of  the  "Piscina  mirabile"  a  basin  with 
forty-eight  immense  i)iers,  and  Misenum  itself  with  its  colossal  bathing  establishments.  All 
these  encompassed  Baiae  like  a  number  of  inferior  jewels  which  surround  the  precious 
diamond. 

Baiae  contained  not  only  the  Sudatorii,  or  sweating  baths,  heated  with  sulphuric  va- 
pour, but  it  was  also  provided  with  cold  baths.  In  the  Frigidarium,  at  both  ends  of  the 
great  saloon,  ice-cold  water  gushed  from  the  mouths  of  immense  bronze  lions'  heads  into 
enormous  marble  basins.  The  brilliant  mosaic  work  which  ornamented  the  floor  might  be 
seen  through  the  water,  which  was  clear  as  crystal.  Above,  in  the  arched  roof,  were  open- 
ings, so  that  the  light  of  the  serene  sky  was  reflected  in  the  pure  flood  beneath.  The  walls 
were  decorated  with  pictures  and  mosaic  work. 

*  The    ancient    name    of    the  toast   the   present    Gulf  of  Baia   was   Baiae,   the  plural   of  the   obsolete   Latin 
word  Baja,  liay. 


r^-    ^ 


^ka-{!^m^z^^ya^e^ 


MAUSOLEUM  OF  CAECILIA  METELLA,  AFTER  NICHOLAS  POUSSIN.  55 


MAUS0LEU3I  OF  CAECILIA  METELLA, 

AFTER 

NICHOLAS  POnSSIN. 


In  spite  of  nil  the  splendid  heroes  in  the  field  of  painting,  which  France,  sinec 
the  time  of  David,  has  produced,  the  P'rcnchman  holds  Poussin  as  the  greatest  master  of  the 
French  school.  In  the  same  ratio  that  Corneille  and  Racine  to  this  day  retain  their  standing 
on  the  summit  of  the  Gallic  Parnassus  docs  Poussin,  as  a  painter,  likewise  stand  pre-emi- 
nent as  the  master  of  his  art ;  and  neither  the  classics,  the  romancers,  nor  the  realists  of  mo- 
dern times  have  been  able  to  dispute  the  palm  with  him. 

Poussin  attained  this  high  position  no  doubt  from  the  circumstance  of  his  genius  being 
essentially  French.  He  pourtrays  a  diverse  series  of  brilliant  phases  of  the  French  national 
character;  his  perceptions  formed  the  key-note  of  those  of  the  French  people.  Like  Voltaire, 
he  presents  nothing  foreign,  and  he  seems  to  have  associated  himself  with  foreign  elements 
for  the  purpose  onlj',  with  their  assistance,  to  prove  himself  more  decidedly  a  Frenchman. 

In  the  beginning  of  the  seventeenth  century,  when  art  had  fallen  to  its  lowest  ebb, 
not  only  in  France  but  likewise  in  Italy,  arose  the  noble  Poussin,  who  devoted  his  powers 
towards  working  out  a  regeneration  in  art,  applying  to  the  same  source  for  his  creation  as 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  ^Michel  Angelo,  and  Raphael — the  anticjue.  The  Caracci  and  their  school 
had  before  him  struck  into  this  path:  but  with  nature  itself,  which  is  the  ground-work  of 
the  antique,  they  continued  unacquainted.  Beyond  the  antirjue  there  was  nothing,  excepting  the 
j)ictures  of  the  great  masters  of  the  fifteenth  century  from  which  they  learned  to  give  artistic 
feeling  to  natural  objects.  The  successors  of  the  Caracci  descended  to  the  most  in- 
sipid mannerism.  Art  was  reduced  to  mere  exterior  form;  these  was  nothing  original  in  the 
conceptions  and  representations  during  the  first  half  of  the  seventeenth  century.  The  artists' 
ideas  seem  to  have  been  taken  up  with  mythological  forms,  and  their  inventive  powers  deserted 
simply  to  combinations  of  art,  to  subjects  which  had  already  been  successfully  represented. 

On  the  one  hand  were  the  followers  of  Michel  Angelo  da  Caravaggio,  Ribera,  Man- 
fredi,  Valentin,  an<l  Guercino,  whose  best  qualities  tended  towards  the  genre.  These  painters 
attempted,  by  a  dashing  treatment  of  light  and  colour,  and  through  exaggerated  contrast,  to 
insure  an  eft'ect  in  their  works.  Guido  and  Albano  revived  the  recollection  of  better  times 
— they  practised,  by  a  fugitive  style  of  drawing,  the  harmony  and  grace,  of  which  Corcggio 
had  been  the  herald.  Lanfranco  and  Peter  von  Cortona  pursued  another  course,  charac- 
terised by  theatrical  pomp,  the  so-called  great  composition;  an  arrangement  calculated 
to  create  astonishment.  Domenichino  and  his  followers  proved  that  the  imitation  of  great 
masters  in  the  art,  and  an  endeavour  to  introduce  a  stronger  feeling  of  natural  appearance, 
might  stand  its  ground — this  course,  however,  was  the  least  influential.  Poussin  sided  with 
Domenichino,  and  by  his  exertions  soon  gained  an  ascendency  which  was  of  great  imj)ortance 
to  the  regeneration  of  art,  both  in  the  seventeenth  and  eighteenth  centuries. 

Poussin  pursued  his  career  in  the  world  of  art  in  Rome  with  a  fervent,  noble 
spirit,  in   which  the  resolution  of  the   ancient  Roman  and  the  vivacity  of  the  Frenchman 


56  THE  GALLEKIES  OF  VIENNA. 

seemed  to  be  unitecl.  Notwithstanding  his  sympathy  for  the  great  and  the  heroic,  Poussin 
possessed  the  animation  and  tlie  penetration  of  his  coiintrynien,  with  a  delicate  feeling  for 
the  pathetic  and  the  elegiac,  together  with  great  activity  of  mind.  He  was  not  unacquainted 
with  classical  literature,  and  had  cultivated  his  taste  by  the  study  of  the  best  authors  of  his 
own  nation.  Endowed  with  personal  attractions  and  a  comprehensive  power  of  delineation, 
he  could  scarcely  fail  to  meet  with  more  than  ordinary  success. 

Nicholas  Poussin  was  born  in  1594  at  Andelys,  in  Normandy.  He  descended  from  a 
family,  who,  in  the  service  of  the  king,  instead  of  reaping  honour  and  wealth,  were  the 
victims  of  poverty.  His  father,  Jean  Poussin,  belonged  to  the  hereditary  nobility  of  Sois- 
sonnais;  his  mother,  Marie  de  Laisement,  was  the  widow  of  a  procurator  in  Andelys,  named 
Lemoine.  Quintin  Varin,  whose  name  would  have  been  buried  in  obscurity  as  an  i]irtist,  is 
now  immortalised  from  the  fact  of  his  having  awakened  the  energies  of  the  boy  Nicholas, 
and  giving  him  his  first  instruction  in  the  art  of  painting.  In  his  eighteenth  year  Poussin — 
brought  up  in  poverty,  but  supported  by  a  consciousness  of  his  own  powers — left  his  pa- 
rental roof  and  repaired,  on  foot,  to  Paris,  in  order  to — become  a  great  painter. 

When  Poussin  arrived  at  the  metropolis  there  was  no  painter  of  any  great  name.  It 
was  at  the  time  of  Louis  XIII's  minority,  during  which  period  art  seemed  at  the  French 
court  to  be  totally  disjiensed  with.  Martin  Freminet  alone  painted  his  formal  pieces  in  the 
chapel  at  Fontainebleau;  Francis  Porbus  the  younger,  by  birth  a  Netherlander,  was  almost 
exclusively  engaged  in  painting  the  portraits  of  the  royal  family,  the  princes  of  the  blood, 
and  prelates.  Valentine  and  Blanchard  were  still  in  their  youth,  and  soon  left  Paris  for 
Rome.  Simon  Voiiet,  a  skilful  painter,  had  accompanied  the  French  ambassador  to  Con- 
stantinople, to  give  the  Turks  an  idea  of  art  as  practised  in  the  western  regions.  The  school 
which  was  to  produce  a  Lesuur,  Lebrini,  Peter  Mignard,  JNIichel  Dorigny,  had  not  yet  been 
founded.  Maria  de'  Medici,  recollecting  the  palaces  of  her  native  country,  Italy,  re- 
nowned throughout  the  world  for  their  specimens  of  art,  nourished  the  idea  of  having  the 
Luxembourg  jaainted,  but  deemed  it  desirable  to  have  an  eye  to  the  Netherlands,  where  the 
star  of  Rubens  had  just  begun  to  ascend  above  the  horizon. 

Nicholas  Poussin  resolved,  for  the  want  of  better,  to  engage  himself  with  two  masters, 
whom,  as  it  soon  proved,  he  in  every  respect  surpassed.  One  of  them  was  a  portrait- 
painter  of  Mecheln,  Ferdinand  Elle;  the  other,  George  Lallemant,  a  man  who  could  turn  his 
hand  to  anything  in  the  way  of  his  business,  and  shewed  great  ability  in  the  decoration  of 
rooms,  in  which  department  he  was  chiefly  engaged.  Lallemant  never  refused  to  execute 
any  commission,  however  great,  for  he  felt  himself  equal  to  deliver  any  quantity  of  work;  he 
handled  his  pencil  like  a  general,  by  bringing  together  an  inexhaustible  number  of  figures, 
which  were  finished,  as  quickly  as  possible,  by  his  scholars.  Poussin  soon  grew  tired  of  this 
mechanical  kind  of  employment,  and  left  the  great  and  wealthy  painter  of  paper-hangings, 
without  even  the  hope  of  being  able  for  the  present  to  earn  enough  for  his  bare  subsistence. 

The  young  man  wandered  from  one  tavern  to  another,  with  the  hope  of  finding  some 
one  who  might  be  inclined  to  have  his  portrait  taken.  In  one  of  his  peregrinations  he 
chanced  to  meet  a  young  nobleman  of  Poitou,  who,  predicting  that  the  lad  would  one  day 
become  a  great  artist,  offered  him  his  patronage.  This  friend  introduced  Poussin  amongst 
his  circle  of  acquaintance,  and  gained  admission  for  the  young  painter  to  the  collections  of 
the  wealthy  patrons  of  art,  thereby  afibrding  him  an  opportunity  to  study. 


MAUSOLEUM  OP  CAECILIA  METELLA.  AFTER  NICHOLAS  POUSSIN.  57 

At  the  residence  of  Courtois,  the  king's  mathematician,  a  learneil  man  and  a  lover 
of  the  arts,  Poussin  saw,  for  the  first  time,  some  drawings  Ijy  Raphael  and  (JiuHo  Romano, 
and  a  collection  of  engravings  by  first-rate  masters.  With  what  an  inward  feeling  of  de- 
light did  he  fancy  he  heard  the  voice  of  his  genius  utter — "for  this' art  is  thy  .-ipirit  formedl" 
He  had  found  the  workings  of  his  own  mind  as  if  reflected  in  a  mirror,  and  he  never 
stepped  out  of  the  path  which  these  grand,  elevated,  inspired  representations  pointed  out 
to  him. 

The  young  painter  coidd  not  jiart  i'rom  the  engravings,  especially  those  of  the  Bo- 
lognese.  Marc  Antonio;  these  treasures  he  had  constantly  before  him.  He  manfully  de- 
termined to  work  in  crayon,  and  began  to  copy  the  mathematician's  collection  of  engravings. 
Poussin  ra[)idly  acquired,  in  tlie  general  appearance  of  his  drawing,  the  style  of  the  Roman 
school  of  the  time  of  Raphael  and  his  immediate  successors,  and,  after  finishing  his  copies, 
his  first  original  )iiece  bore  the  e\ident  stamp  of  his  great  prototypes.  The  young  painter 
possessed  jiowerful,  imaginative  faculties  and  was  sufficiently  proud  not  to  sacrifice  himself 
to  mere  imitation.  An  agreeable  situation  in  life  seemed  to  be  determined  for  the  rising 
painter.  The  3'oung  nobleman  of  Poitou,  whose  name  has  not  been  recorded,  invited  Poussin 
to  share   with  him  his  dwelling  in  his  castle  at  home. 

In  oi'der  not  to  wound  the  self-res])ect  of  the  artist,  the  young  noble  made  him  the 
proposition  to  paint  several  rooms  in  the  castle,  leaving  everything  to  his  own  taste.  The 
poor,  isolated  painter  overjoyed,  accepted  the  proposal  of  his  rich  friend,  and  travelled  with 
him  to  that  asylum  wliich  his  imagination  ha<l  pictured  to  him  as  a  paradise.  Here  were 
perfect  Arcadian  leisure  hours  for  real  study;  here  was  real  imcoiitrolled  nature;  and  the 
halls  of  the  old  dj-nastic  castle  presented  rich  historical  treasures  for  the  jiencil  of  the 
young  artist. 

Poussin,  however,  soon  discovered  that  fate  had  <in\y  ii-iposed  upon  liim  a  Mri-r  riiul 
of  the  firmness  of  his  character. 

The  mother  of  the  young  noble,  an  aristocratic,  overbearing  woman  treateil  the  sjii- 
rited  guest  with  shameful  contempt.  This  fury  looked  upon  all  artists  as  superfluous  being'^, 
and  coming  under  the  category  of  thieves  and  vagabonds.  The  laih-  of  the  castle  protested 
strongly  against  the  young  stranger  touching  the  walls,  which  since  time  immemorial  had 
been  inhabited  by  nobility  without  needing  the  trumpery  performances  of  a  painter.  At' 
length,  however,  this  Megan-e  consented  to  allow  Poussin  lioard  and  lodging,  provided  that 
he  would  bind  himself  to  paint  the  wood-work  of  the  village  church,  and,  wlien  not 
thus  occupied,  he  should  assist  the  gardener,  by  fetching  water,  and  make  himself 
generally  usefid.  Poussin  was  above  expressing  any  degree  of  anger  at  this  piece  of 
presumption — the  ignorance  and  vulgarity  of  thejiolile  lady  were  calculated  only  to  excite  a 
feeling  of  disgust.  Deeply  regretting  the  fate  of  his  friend,  subjected  to  such  a  mother,  the 
painter  departed  from  the  "Poitevin  paradise.'"  Sadlv  depressed  in  spirits,  Poussin,  «ith  his 
knapsack  on  his  shoulders,  returned  on  foot  the  same  way  that  he,  drawn  by  swift  'horses, 
had  entered  the  province,  when  his  heart  was  full  of  hajjjiv  sensations,  his  Iwain  with  bril- 
liant ideas. 

In  Paris  misery  awaited  him.  He  had  a  severe  struggle  with  his  feelings  before  re- 
commencing these  days  of  starvation,  depending  upon  chane*  for  a  dinner  or  a  supper. 
After  enduring  this  a  few  days,  lie  formed  the  resolution  to  seek  the  home  of  his  birth,  where 

Galleries  of  Vienna  ti 


5S  I'lIK    GALLERIES  OF   VIENNA. 

at  least  he  would  be  sure  oi'  finding  a  meal.  It  was  a  painful  determination,  that  of  returning 
home  to  his  father's  hearth,  without  ha\ing  realised  one  of  his  elevated  ideas.  Nicholas  con- 
soled himself,  however,  with  the  hope  of  soon  being  able  to  finish  a  few  pictures,  and,  that 
the  money  he  should  receive  for  them  would  enable  him  to  undertake  a  journey  to  Italy; 
for  it  was  evident  to  him  that  he  should  find  nothing  in  the  capital  of  France,  but  the  de- 
struction of  all  his  finer  faculties. 

In  Andelys  his  circumstances  must  have  been  most  wretched;  for  Nicliolas  was  very 
soon  again  on  the  tramp,  seeking  school  work  from  the  patrons  of  churches,  the  heads  of 
cloisters,  and  the  literati.  Of  what  transpired  during  this  journey  little  is  known,  further 
thaii  that  the  noble  youth  was  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  soliciting  charity,  in  fact,  of  begging 
for  his  daily  bread.  During  all  this  time  his  parents  were  uiiilcr  the  hnpression  that  he  had 
repaired  to  Eome,  under  the  most  favourable  auspices. 

It  is  certain  that  Poussin,  while  proceeding  on  this  terrible  journey,  halted  at  Lyons. 
He  arrived  at  that  place  just  at  the  time  that  the  Jesuits  were  making  great  preparations  to 
celebrate  the  institution  of  their  order.  Poussin  succeeded  in  obtaining  a  commission  to  ex- 
ecute six  large  transparencies,  illustrative  of  the  history  of  St.  Ignatius  Loyolas,  and  Francis 
Xaverii.  For  this  purpose  he  had  oidy  eight  days  allowed  him;  but  Poussin,  recollecting  the 
cjuantity  of  work  turned  out  by  his  former  master  Lallemant,  set  to  work  in  good  earnest, 
and  delivered  the  six  pictures  liy  the  time  specified.  These  rej)resentations  so  far  exceeded 
all  expectation,  that  the  Jesuits  were  pleased  to  pay  the  artist  double  the  sum  that  he  de- 
manded for  them. 

It  would  appear  that  the  young  painter,  relying  on  this  piece  of  success,  had  already 
made  the  attempt  to  reach  Rome.  He  seems  to  have  arrived  in  Florence,  whence,  from  ex- 
treme poverty,  he  was  compelled  again  to  return  to  France.  At  all  c\cnts,  in  his  later  years 
Poussin  declared  that  he  had  twice,  and  alone,  crossed  the  Al|)s  on  foot.  It  may  also  be  in- 
ferred, that  it  was  the  Jesuits  who  received  him  during  this  adventurous  route,  for  in  Paris 
too  there  appear  to  have  liccn  members  of  that  fraternity  who  assisted  him. 

At  that  time,  Poussin  took  uj)  his  abode  in  the  ColU'ge  de  I.oou.  In  the  painter 
Philipp  de  Champagne  hq  found  an  intelligent,  l)ut  needy  friend;  and  tlu-ough  him  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  Cavalier  Marini,  no  mean  jioct,  wl-.cise  cheerful  songs  are  not  for- 
gotten to  this  day.  This  new  Anacreon  formed  a  lively  and  sincere  affection  for  the  young- 
painter,  was  delighted  with  his  predilection  for  the  antiijue,  read  to  him  his  verses  and  his 
longer  poem  "Adonis,"  put  him  on  the  right  way  of  studying  the  old  classic  writers,  and  made 
lim  more  particularly  acquainted  with  the  mytholog'''.il  world  of  the  (irccks  and  Romans. 

Purely  on  his  young  friend's  account,  iNIarini  made  up  his  minil  to  visit  Rome.  When 
the  cavalier  had  made  every  preparation  for  his  journey  tliitlu'r,  Poussin  received  from  the 
goldsmiths'  company  in  Paris  the  honourable  commission  to  paint  a  tablet-picture  for  the 
chapel  in  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame — the  death  of  the  Virgin  ]\Iary.  Warini,  on  leaving 
Poussin  to  his  work,  provided  him  with  money,  and  then  set  off  alone  on  his  j(jurncy  to 
Rome.  Poussin,  after  having  successfully  completed  his  work,  i'or  which  he  received  hand- 
some payment,  left  Paris  in  the  spring  of  1624,  and  safely  arrived  in  the  "holy  city." 

The  Cavalier  Marini  introduced  his  protc'ge  to  the  Cardinal  P)arl)erini,  tlie  great  pa- 
tron and  connoisseur  of  art,  with  these  words:  "vederete  tni  ffiorane,  die  a  la  fnria  di'l  di/iro/o,^' 
—  'you    shall    see    a  youth  who  jiossesses    the    fire   of  a    devil.'    Soon  afterwards   Marini 


MAUSOLEUM  OF  CAI'X'ILIA  MKl'KLLA.  AFTER  NICHOLAS  POUSSIN.  59 

made  an  excursion  to  Naj)]es — and  died  tliere.  Barberini  was  sent  to  tlio  legations,  and 
Poussin — as  another  patron,  tlie  Marquis  Mairello  Sacchetti,  took  no  trouble  about  him— was 
alone  in  Rome.  A  time  came  \vi\en  Poussin  experienced  as  much  misery  as  he  had  formerly 
undergone  in  Paris.  His  pictures  were  so  contrary  to  the  prevailing  taste,  that  he  frequently 
received  no  more  for  them  than  the  value  of  the  canvas.  He  disposed  of  two  battle  pieces, 
and  they  were  not  small  pictures,  for  seven  scudi;  a  prophet,  of  great  beauty,  for  eight  livres; 
the  j)icture  of  "the  Philistines"  — so  much  lauded  at  a  later  period — for  sixty  dollars. 

The  acquaintance  he  formed  with  a  sculptor,  Francis  Duquesnoy,  called  by  the  Ita- 
lians after  the  place  of  his  birth,  "il  Fiamingho,"  the  Fleming,  was  of  vast  importance.  The 
two  yo>mg  men  were  equally  enthusiastic  for  the  antique  sculpture.  They  were  both  spi- 
rited, ardent,  desirous  to  attain  knowledge,  and,  at  length,  one  became  as  poor  as  the  other. 
They  lived,  worked,  and  studied  together.  While  Duquesnoy  endeavoured  to  conquer  the 
rigid  substantiality,  the  apathetic  coldness  of  the  antique  sculpture,  and  to  invest  the  distinct 
forms  with  an  expression  of  feeling,  Poussin  directed  his  exertions  towards  the  re-intro- 
duction of  these  faultless  forms  into  the  degraded  mannerism  of  painting. 

The  young  men  set  ^o  work  in  right  good  earnest  and  genial  circumspection.  They 
studied,  drew,  and  modelled  from  the  Greek  antique,  exercised  themselves  in  mathematics, 
perspective,  optics;  and  Poussin  began,  assisted  by  the  young  sculptor I'Algarde,  the  difficult 
task  ofmensurating  most  of  the  antique  sculptures  at  the  time  in  Rom'e:  the  Niobides,  Laocoon, 
the  Wrestlers,  the  reclining  Heracles,  the  Antinous,  &c.  The  result  of  this  mensuration  of 
Antinous  is,  in  the  oi-iginal,  preser\cd  in  the  library  of  Massimi;  the  others  are  lost. 

The  world  of  classical  anticpiity  made  so  firm  an  impression  on  Poussin  that  its 
stamp  is  visil)le  in  all  his  works.  The  ('ardinal,  on  his  return,  had  scarcely  cast  an  eye  upon 
the  works  of  the  young  painter,  before  he  distinguished  the  direction  whicl\  the  genius  of 
Poussin  took  and  in  which  he  would  excel.  The  ecclesiastical  prince  commissioned  Poussin 
to  paint  "The  Death  of  Germanieus."  Poussin,  at  last  furnished  with  a  subject  so  corre- 
sponding with  his  feelings,  concentrated  all  his  powers,  and  produced  one  of  his  master- 
pieces. 

This  Germanieus  ranks  with  those  pi(;tures  which,  once  seen,  the  recollection  of  it  can 
never  be  ol)literated.  The  figures  are  noble,  nervous — true  Romans,  conquerors  of  the  world; 
^still  an  elegiac  feeling  pervades.  Germanieus  betrays  no  pain  at  parting  from  life,  but  ap- 
pears sorrowful  that  he,  under  the  influence  of  poison,  must  sink  without  having  merited  the 
hate  of  the  malicious.  The  high  light  is  concentrated  in  the  figures  of  the  hero.  The 
groups  are  distinct,  full  of  feeling  for  the  chief  ol>icet,  although,  perhaps,  their  countenances 
exhil)it  less  than  their  attitudes.  The  distress  depicted  in  the  weeping  Agrippina,  at  the  head 
of  the  couch  on  wiiich  the  hero  is  about  to  yield  up  his  last  breath,  is  wonderfully  touching. 
Poussin  has  represented  the  wife  of  Ciermauicus  with  her  face  concealed  by  her  hands,  in  a 
similar  manner  to  that  of  Agamemnon  at  the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia  by  the  Grecian  painter. 
The  cardinal  considered  the  expression  of  this  figure  of  Agrippina  as  unsurpassable,  and 
being  an  excellent  judge,  applauded  the  idea  of  the_  artist,  in  having  concealed  the  terrible 
paroxysms  of  griefi  and  therel)y  [ireserving  the  modest,  philosophical  feeling  and  the  har- 
mony of  the  picture. 

As  Barberini  wished  to  possess  a  representation  of  the  destruction  of  Jerusalem  by 
Titus,  Poussin  received  a  commission  to  iinint  this  sul)ject.     This  was  a  work  on  whicli   the 

-     '  8* 


60  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA 

artist,  was  able  to  display  his  no  small  knowledge  of  Roman  antiquity.  Pioljablj-  his 
jjictiire  would  have  been  better,  at  least  more  effective  and  drastic,  had  lie  not  too  strictly  dis- 
played his  archseological  knowledge,  and  so  palpably  discovered  his  historical  and  ethnographical 
studies.  This  was  certainly  not  an  imaginary  Jerusalem,  but  tlie  "Hicrosolamys"  of  Flavius 
Josephus,  with  the  proud  castle  of  Antonia,  and  the  strongl}-  fortified  temple  on  David's  mountai:i. 
This  was  really  the  ground  on  wliich  the  dreadful  battle  w'as  foughi:  and  not  an  imaginary 
country  pro\'ided  with  general  oriental  characteristics.  These  Romans  were  armed  in  strict 
accordance  with  martial  order,  and  those  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  subject  find  out 
even  the  soldiers  of  the  Spanish  legions  of  Vespasian,  the  (lanls  of  the  proviuce,  the 
Rha^tians,  and  the  sons  of  the  chief  city  of  tlie  world:  but  taken  alfogclher  Poussin  had  col- 
lected more  materials  into  his  pictiu-e  tlian  can  l)e  really  wrought  out.  Tlie  coldness  and 
dryness  of  the  antiquary  had  too  much  influence  over  the  artist. 

Another  large  picture  of  considerable  im|)ortance  and  artistical  value  is  "The  Pest  of 
the  Philistines.''  In  this  picture  the  vivacity  of  Poussin's  imagination  fully  presents  itselfl 
The  Philistian  city  of  Azoth,  with  her  magnificent  temples,  opens  to  the  view  as  the  theatre 
of  innumerable  horrors.  On  all  sides  lie  the  <lead  and  the  dying,  the  rich  and  tlie  poor,  men 
of  gigantic  strength,  mothers  with  children  at  their  Ijreasts;  we  see  (he  convulsive  motions  of 
those  wrestling  with  the  first  attack  of  the  mj-stcrious  sickness.  The  high  priest,  surrounded 
by  tlie  senirtors  of  the  city,  is  transfixed  with  horror  at  the  dreadful  form  of  Dagon — a  co- 
lossal idol — wdnch,  with  head  and  hands  severed  from  its  liody,  lies  at  the  threshold  (if  tlie  tenqile. 
The  pestilential  breath  issuing  from  the  dead  and  the  dying  seems  to  taint  the  air:  the  fugi- 
tives muffle  up  their  mouths  and  noses,  and,  >vitli  averted  faces,  hasten  from  them.  An  im- 
mense army  of  rats  apjiears  to  terminate  the  afflictions  of  the  Philistines  who  dared  to  take 
possession  of  the  ark  of  the  covenant  ot  the  Lord  of  Sabaoth. 

These  pictures  established  the  rc]Hitation  of  Poussin.  He  was  a  master  wlio  imder- 
stood  the  artistical  arrangement  of  matter;  his  mind  was  capalde  of  representing  the  most 
noble  form,  shewing  its  jiower  over  the  strongest  nutward  emotions;  and  he  possessed  that 
genius  which  enabled  him  to  arrange  his  groups  with  the  same  tact  as  a  general  places  the 
troops  under  his  command.  Poussin  seems  to  have  been  less  gifted  in  flic  portrayal  of  a 
genuine  ekpression  of  direct  emotion,  and  if,  in  any  one  figure,  the  appearance  of  internal 
suffering  lie  happily  delineated,  the  eftbrt  becomes  more  striking,  owing  to  the  other  figures 
in  the  piece  being  of  a  different,  colder  character. 

Poussin  was,  like  few  other  painters,  by  his  turn  of  mind,  by  the  nature  of  hi>  talent 
as  an  artist,  and  by  his  studies,  directed  to  the  painting  of  monumental  pictures.  By  the 
vagueness  in  the  expression  of  his  heads,  most  of  his  easel-pieces  are  cold  and  conventional, 
while  in  fresco  pictures  the  antique  schematic  modelling  of  the  heads  would,  in  most  cases, 
be  satisfactory,  or  by  the  speaking  action,  at  least,  not  disturb  the  general  effect. 

For  the  intrinsic  painting,  for  a  characteristic,  pure  colouring,  and  a  flowing  breadth 
of  tints,  Poussin  possessed  but  little  feeling.  His  power  consisted  in  the  greatness  of  his 
conceptions,  in  the  idea,  to  which  comes  a  correct  introduction  <if  light  and  a  rigid  per- 
spective. He  was  never  more  in  his  element  than  when  moving  on  antiqup  ground,  and  in- 
deed he  painted  few  landscapes  to  which  he  did  not  impress  the  "heroic,"  as  it  was  called 
at  the  time,  by  the  introduction  of  classic  requisites. 

The  first  great   triuinnh   of  Poussin  was  his   being    called    to    Paris,    to    paint    for 


MAUSOLEUM  OF  CAECILIA  METELLA,  AFTER  NICHOLAS  POUSSIN.  61 

Louis  XIII.  a  suite  of  apartmenst  in  the  Louvre,  and  to  adorn  the  large  gallery  of  that  palace 
with  pictures.  Poussin,  as  he  was  newly  married,  could  scarcely  make  up  his  mind  to  leave 
Rome.  At  length  he  set  out — but  without  his  wife,  the  sister  of  the  painter  Kaspar  Dughet 
— and  arrived  in  Paris  in  the  year  1640.  The  king  received  him  with  great  delight.  "VoiUi 
Vouet  Men  attrape!"  cried  his  Majesty,  in  allusion  to  Simon  Vouet,  whom  Poussin  was  in- 
tended to  supplant. 

Poussin  was  made  chief  painter  to  the  king,  and  director  of  all  undertakings  con- 
nected with  the  art  of  painting,  with  a  salary  of  3,(l<l(l  Hvres.  After  painting  numerous 
trifles,  unworthy  of  his  talent,  for  the  royal  printing  estal)lishment,  ornaments  for  decorating 
rooms,  chimney-pieces,  even  designs  for  book-covers,  by  "command,"  Poussin  considered  that 
his  powers  had  not  been  properly  employed  and,  depressed  in  spirits,  began  to  make  pre- 
parations for  his  return  to  Rome,  when  the  king  expressed  the  wish  that  the  painter  should 
commence  the  proposed  great  work.  The  painter  occupied  an  elegant  suite  of  apartments 
in  the  Tuileries,  where  he  designed  eight  large  cartoons,  representing  subjects  from  the  Old 
Testament,  which  were  to  be  executed  by  tlie  hand  of  the  weaver.  For  the  chapel  in  the 
palace  of  St.  Germain,  Poussin  painted  a  "Last  Supper,"  wliich  afforded  his  numerous  en- 
vyers  a  welcome  ojjportunity  for  their  scurrilous  attacks.  True  to  his  views  of  historical 
correctness,  the  painter  had  placed  the  Saviour  and  his  disci})les  reclining  round  a  table.  A 
lamp  suspended  from  the  ceiling  lit  up  the  figures,  which  were  life-size.  The  picture,  per- 
haps, if  not  viewed  as  an  ot)ject  to  ci-eate  religious  emotion,  is  one  of  the  finest  by  this 
painter.  This  magnificent  genre  piece  serve<l  his  enemies  for  a  proof  that  Poussin — next  to 
his  being  a  very  irreligious  man — was  not  capable  of  executing  a  picture  worthy  of  a  place 
in  a  church,  or  suitable  to  a  royal  residence. 

Nevertheless,  Louis  XIII.  insisted  on  Poussin's  making  his  arrangement  to  paint 
"the  Labours  of  Hercules,"  for  the  Gallery  of  the  Lou^■re.  The  construction  of  the 
gallery  was  under  the  direction  of  Lemercier,  the  king's  architect.  He  fixed  upon  the  di- 
visions in  the  arched  roof  in  which  the  painter  was  to  produce  his  pictures.  The  architectural 
arrangements  were  altogether  so  inelegant  and  inapplical)le  that  the  jiictures  were  made  merely 
a  secondary  consideration.  Poussin,  therefore,  in  his  directorial  capacity,  proceeded  to  effect 
changes,  according  to  his  own  views,  in  the  gallery,  and  had  removed  a  row  of  very  heavy 
looking  consoles,  which  Lemercier,  to  his  no  small  pride,  had  placed,  like  an  army  of 
musketeers,  from  one  end  of  the  gallery  to  the  other. 

This  alteration  having  been  carried  out,  he  was  looked  upon  by  his  enemies  as  an 
impudent  interloper  at  court,  and  it  was  the  signal  for  open  war.  Lemercier  wrote  a  pam- 
phlet on  the  "Vandalism  of  the  Painter  of  the  Last  Supper;'"  Simon  Vouet,  who  for  several 
years  had  given  the  king  lessons  in  pastel-drawing,  in  which  his  majesty  had  made  not  the 
slightest  progress,  brought  his  infiuence  into  play  against  his  secretly  detested  rival,  and 
Fouquicres,  the  Flemish  landscape  pa'iter,  who,  since  the  king  had  raised  him  to  the  title  ot 
a  liaron,  never  worked  without  his  rapier  at  his  side,  vowed  destruction,  incited  the  cour- 
tiers, and,  what  was  worse,  the  ladies  of  the  court,  who  were  all  up  in  arms  against  Poussin. 
Their  animosity  prevailed  to  such  an  extent,  that  the  master  was  obliged  to  defend  himself 
against  his  enemies.  He  did  so,  with  the  dignity  and  power  of  a  lion.  The  phalanx  of  hia 
antagonists,  however,  was  not  to  be  easily  destroyed;  on  the  contrary,  they  armed  themselves, 
boldly  fighting  only  for  their  lives.    A  new  picture,  "The  Miracle*  of  St.  Francis  Xaverii", 


62  THE  (iAI.'.EKIES  CIK  VIENNA. 

which  the  Jesuits  had  ordered,  furnished  the  aggressors  with  fresh  imj)lements.  The  rurrent 
opinion  was,  that  the  figure  of  Christ,  which  aj)peared  in  tliat  picture,  bore  more  resenibhince 
to  a  Jupiter  sending  forth  his  lightning  than  to  a  gracious  and  mercy  dispensing  Saviour; 
that  the  outlines  of  the  figures  were  tasteless  and  weak,  and  that  the  tinting  betrayed  a  total 
want  of  knowledge  in  the  management  of  colour. 

It  will  he  readily  admitted  that  "Francis  Xaver  amongst  the  Japanese"  is  not  one  of 
Poussin's  most  successftd  pieces.  The  colouring — which  was  not  Poussin's  great  forte — is 
faulty.  Still  the  picture  contains  certain  beauties  in  the  grand  action  of  the  figures;  in  parts, 
the  exquisitely  beautiful  drapery — especially  remarkable  in  the  charming  young  Japanese 
maiden  who  is  just  rising — and  also  the  elevated  feeling  which  throughout  pervades  the  com- 
])osition.  It  is  not  to  be  denied  that  this  picture  lias  much  of  the  appearance  of  a  cartoon ;  and 
it  would  have  been  better  had  the  young  master  adapted  it,  to  the  fresco  work  in  the 
gallery.  The  hostile  triumvirate  gained  the  voice  of  the  king,  who,  by  virtue  of  his  studies 
in  pastel-drawing  and  as  a  dilettante  in  colouring,  opined  that  Poussin  had  delivered  an 
unsuccessful  piece;  Maria  de'  Medici  could  exercise  no  influence  in  the  matter,  as  her 
opinion  was  regarded  as  subjective  to  that  of  his  majesty.  Notwithstanding  this  triumph 
of  the  enemy,  the  conmiission  to  paint  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre  was  not  countermanded, 
nor  did  the  king  venture  to  restrict  the  master  in  his  directorial  authority. 

Poussin  had  already  formed  his  resolution.  He  disdained  any  longer  to  combat 
against  the  machinations  of  envy,  ignorance,  and  slander.  He  laid  aside  all  his  preparations, — 
although  they  were  toleraI)ly  far  ad\'anced — for  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre,  and  painted  a 
picture  which  seems  to  be  'the  reply  of  genius  to  the  attack  of  vulgarity'.  This  was  "Truth," 
a  sublime  female  figure,  being  raised  ]>y  Saturn — time — to  heaven,  in  spite  of  calumny  and 
vice.  The  arrangement  of  the  picture  is  indistinct  and  unpleasing,  and  the  action  of  the 
figures  of  a  somewhat  theatrical  effect.  The  forms,  however,  possess  great  elegance  and 
force,  and,  taken  as  a  whole,  it  gives  the  impression  of  noble  and  victorious  freedom. 

And  the  painter  was  free  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  the  king,  who,  fearful  that 
he  should  lose  the  artist,  unwittingly  declared  that  he  would  protect  him  against  the  criti- 
cism of  his  enemies;  an  insult,  though  not  intended,  which  served  only  to  increase  his  desire 
to  return  to  his  wife.  At  length  Poussin  was  permitted  to  revisit  Rome,  in  order  to  bring 
her  back  with  him.  Poussin  galloped  through  the  gates  of  Paris,  and  solemnly  swore  that, 
he  would  never  again  enter  the  city  of  his  birth.  In  November,  1642,  the  painter  again  found 
himself  in  his  beloved  Rome.  An  indescribable  sensation  of  happiness  ran  through  him  on 
rejoining  his  family  and  the  circle  of  his  friends,  and  being  again— instead  of  a  Lemercier, 
Vouet,  and  Fouquieres — with  Claude  Lorrain,  Sandrart,  and  friend  Bamboccio.  Louis  XIII. 
on  learning,  to  a  cei-tainty,  that  Poussin  would  not  return  to  Paris,  showed  his  high  feeling 
of  respect  for  the  painter  by  gi-anting  him  a  |)ension  of  1,000  dollars. 

In  the  full  enjoyment  of  peace  and  quiet,  Poussin  dedicated  all  his  powers  to  art. 
His  marriage,  though  happy,  produced  no  issue.  He  lived  comfortably  with  his  beautiful 
wife,  and,  dispensing  with  the  Services  of  an  attendant  at  his  pallet,  he  avoided  many  an- 
noyances to  which  an  assistant  might  have  subjected  him.  The  activity  whicii  Poussin  dis- 
played is  astonishing.  Like  Ijeonardo  da  Vinci,  Raphael,  and  Griulio  Romano — Poussin's  dis- 
position bore  a  more  than  superficial  similaritj-  to  the  last  named — Master  Nicholas  exercised 
his  irexhausMble  powers  in  every  department  of  art,  and  imprinted  his  productions  with   the 


Joh^  Vi£yA.;i ' 


^Ty^fz^sc. 


"■^y^P^^.  6^;^d^£^:^^Z^^^:^^^i*:^=^ 


riKniiaUriiitaK  V  AllPdinr  Leipaifi  u  Il-rf-?i"ir.:i. 


THE  HOLY  VIRGIN,  AFTKK  JOHANN  VAN  EYCK.  fi3 

Stamp  of  his  genius.  lie  never  descended  to  anything-  connnon-place  or  trivial;  his  ideas 
were  associated  only  with  the  grand,  the  noble,  and  the  sublime.  The  "ungula  leonis"  is 
perceptible  in  all  his  works. 

The  sacred  writings,  history,  mythology,  legends,  and  the  works  of  the  poets  pre- 
sented subjects  for  the  restless  and  impelling  powers  of  representation  which  anipiated  this 
great  genius.  His  "Kcbecca  at  the  Well"  welcoming  Klieser,  the  slave  of  Abraham,  who  is 
about  to  announce  to  the  young  maiden  that  she  shall  be  the  bride  of  his  young  master; 
"The  enraged  Armida;'"  "The  Testament  of  Eudamidas;"  "Moses  striking  the  Rock;"  "The 
Rape  of  the  Sabine  Women;"  "The  Arcadians:'"  "The  Hamadryads  borne  by  a  Satyr," 
"Delivery  of  the  locking  and  unlocking  Keys,"  ])aiiited  in  the  style  of  Raphael:  "Poly- 
phemos,"  like  a  rock  sitting  on  a  mountain;  "Venus  and  Adonis;"  Landscapes,  with  magni- 
ficent ruins  and  copious  adjuncts;  "Pyrrhus,  as  a  Child,  rescued  from  his  Enemies;"  "Corio- 
lanus;"  "Time  causing  the  Seasons  to  dance;"  "Martyrdom  of  St.  Bartholomew;"  "The 
Transport  of  the  Apostle  Paul;"  "The  Picture  of  Human  Life;"  "A  Hurricane"— all  these 
subjects  were  produced  ])y  the  hand  of  Poussin,  to  whom,  in  versatilitj-, — of  all  the  French 
painters, — Horace  Vernet  alone  can  be  coiupavcd.  although  these  two  Frenchmen  are  so 
totally  different  from  each  other. 

The  works  of  Poussin,  like  his  personal  appearance,  exhibit  decided  features  of  the 
heroic  and  the  philoso[>hical;  'with  sensitive,  refined  spirit,  noble  and  pure  emotions.  The 
rank  that  Corneille  holds  as  a  poet,  Poussin  maintains  as  a  painter,  and  he  will  ever  be 
acknowledged  as  the  most  brilliant  type  of  the  old  French  spirit. 

Poussin  died,  in  full  possession  of  his  faculties,  November  I'Jth,  lt)65. 


THE  HOLY  VIKGIN, 


JOHANN  VAN  EYCK. 


The  germs  of  Art  seemed  to  flourish  chiefly  under  the  brilliant  rays  of  the  sun,  and 
the  serene  skies  of  the  South.  Works  of  art  pre-eminently  emerged  from  Greece;  and  when 
art  suffered  by  the  sword  of  barbarism  in  that  country,  it  became  resuscitated  in  the  ever 
flowery  plains  of  lovely  Italy.  It  is  a  splendid  flower,  from  which  sprouts  leaf  after  leaf,  till 
at  length  its  sparkling  cup  burst?  forth  in  full  lustre. 

The  Italians  possessed  the  great  advantage  of  adding  to  their  activity  in  art  through 
studying  the  works  of  the  ancient  masters.  Although  assisted  by  heathen  art,  the  progress 
was  slow  and  tedious  before  they  could  arrive  at  anything  like  freedom  in  the  representation 
of  Christian  subjects,  nor  till  the  fifteenth  century  did  they  mamtiiin  thuir  painting  free  from 
theinflucnceof  sculpture,  and  advance  to  a  true  artistic  preception  nf  active  life.  Paolo  l^ccello 
(1389 — 1472)  pointed  out  the  laws  with  reference  to  space  and  appearance;  he  discovered  and 


64  .  THE  GALLEEIES  OF  VIENNA. 

formed  the  science  of  perspective,  and  from  that  time  the  knowledge  of  this  very  important 
science  has  been  cuhivated  and  exercised  to  its  fullest  extent. 

At  this  period,  however,  two  brothers,  named  Huyhrecht  and  Johann  van  Eyck,  of 
Brugge,  in  the  Netherlands,  found  out — as  if  by  inspiration — that  which  the  Italian  masters, 
acquainted  as  they  were  with  the  antique,  had  been  so  long  and  unsuccessfully  in  search  of. 

In  the  Netherlands  reigned  the  stiff  and  typical  mannerism,  which  had  found  its  way 
from  the  south  to  the  bleak  shores  of  the  north.  The  byzantine  type  prevailed  likewise  in 
these  countries  as  well  as  in  Italy,  and  the  tendency  to  a  free  movement  in  repi'esentation,  like 
those,  amongst  others,  in  the  sculptures  of  St.  Bernward  at  Hildesheim — the  German  Lo- 
renzo Ghilierti — had  long  sunk  into  oblivion. 

The  pictures  of  the  old  style  looked  inanimate;  the  casting  of  the  draperies  was 
of  a  rigid  sj-metry,  and  the  pictures  exhibited  a  total  want  of  a  natural  introduction  of  light 
and  colouring.  The  figures,  like  those  of  sculptured  forms,  depended  upon  the  effect  of  the 
outward  light.  In  the  picture  itself,  with  the  exception  of  the  figure,  nothing  was  to  be  found 
but  a  gilt  ground,  stars,  or  leaves  painted  ,so  as  to  resemble  relief  work,  or  vine  shoots, 
creeping  plants,  &c.  No  ground  of  action,  no  expression  of  any  prominent  feeling,  was  dis- 
cernible. 

The  brothers  Ej-ck  were  the  first  Dutch  painters  to  make  improvements  on  this  primitive 
style  of  art;  and  for  this  purpose  they  took  very  decided  steps.  Instead  of  the  gilt  ground  and  the 
unmeaning  creeping  plants,  dowers,  &c.,  which  environed  the  figures,  they  resorted  to  the 
beauties  of  nature;  and  for  this  trumpei-y  substituted  the  tlue  sky,  fields  and  forests,  moun- 
tains and  valleys,  streams  and  lakes.  The  landscape  was  rendered  of  importance,  and  necessi- 
tated the  painter  to  throw  animation  into  his  figures  to  a  corresponding  degree;  and  his 
attention  was  thus  drawn  to  the  arrangement  of  light  and  colour.  The  brothers  Eyck  opened 
a  new  world,  the  existence  of  which  their  predecessors,  even  the  great  master  Wilhelm  of 
Cologne,  scarcely  could  have  foretold. 

The  outer  world  was  conquered  for  the  figures  of  painting.  While  the  Italians  were 
slowly  bringing  their  theory  of  perspective  to  bear,  and  held  the  object  in  view,  to  convey 
vitality  into  the  given,  sculptured  forms — the  Dutch  devoted  themselves  to  the  study  of  na- 
ture, and  this  presently  empowered  them  to  give  their  representations  of  objects  according 
to  her  laws.  If  there  were  any  Italians  who  pursued  the  same  course  which  led  the  Eycks 
to  such  great  results  it  was  the  Umbrians.  Convinced  of  their  incapacity  for  the  classical 
style  of  the  Florentines,  they  sought  the  expression  of  their  own  sentiment  and  turned 
immediately  to  the  works  of  nature.  But  if  the  Umbrians,  during  the  first  part  of  the  fif- 
teenth century,  strove  to  raise  their  figui-es  to  the  dignity  of  real  nature,  they  continued  fiar 
behind  in  the  introduction  of  objects  from  out  of  door  life.  Raphael  was  the  first  with 
powerful  hand  to  open  a  school  for  landscape. 

i  The  powerful  effect  of  natural  oi)jects  was  soon  felt  by  the  Eycks  in  opposition  to 

the  adequateness  of  their  technics.  They  found  themselves  under  the  necessity  of  distributing 
great  breadths  of  light,  and  of  diffusing  the  most  lively  and  brillinnt  colours  over  their  works, 
in  order  that  the  subjects  might  not  apoear  too  sombre  in  comparison  with  nature.  To 
effect  this,  however,  the  weak  fugitive  colours  with  which  they  were  accustomed  to  work 
were  by  no  means  adapted.  Chiaroscuro,  whereby  light  and  colour  are  made  so  to  co-operate 
as  to  produce  such  wonderful  effects  when  justly  amalgamated,  was  not  yet  known.   If,  there- 


THE  HOLY  VIRGIN,  AFTEK  JOUANN  VAN  EYCK.  65 

fore,  the  colours  in  tlie  picture  were  intended  to  tell,  they  must  unavoidably  appear  vapid 
when  contrasted  with  those  of  nature. 

This  was  a  difficulty  which  the  brothers  Eyck  were  indefatijiable  in  their  endeavoura 
to  solve.  .Toliann,  the  younger  of  the  two,  was  well  aecjuainted  with  chymistry,  and  had,  con- 
sequently, profited  by  it  in  the  preparation  of  his  colours;  but  he  never  attained  the  satis- 
factory result  which  he  hoped  to  arrive  at.  He  observed,  however,  that  a  coat  of  varnish 
added  materially  to  their  lustre  and  gave  them  a  delicate,  transparent  apj)earance.  One 
step  ■('urtlier  and  tlie  .-ccret  was  discovered,  which  was  simply,  instead  of  varnishing  the  picture 
alter  its  cnmiiletion,  to  mix  ilie  varnish  itself  with  the  body-colour,  and  so  conmience 
the  work. 

The  management  of  mixing  colour  with  oil  may  probably  have  been  known  in  tech- 
nics, hut  its  adaptiiui  to  painting  was  (piitc  new.  It  docs  not  deteriorate  the  merits  of  the 
Eycks,  that  Pliny,  and  after  hi]n  the  monk  Th.eophilos— who  lived  j)robal>]_y  at  tiie  beginning 
of  the  ele%'enth  century —  wrote  on  the  method  of  preparing  oil  colours,  and  that  the  monk  even  ex- 
pressly says  that  linseed  oil  ought,  properly,  to  l)e  boiled.  In  the  days  of  the  Eycks,  no  one 
thought  of  these  old  writers,  any  nK)re  than  the  contemporaries  of  Columbus  could  have 
dreamt  that  tlie  new  world,  according  to  existing  documents,  was  discovered  long  bei'ore  the 
glorious  voyage  of  the  Genoese.  But  we  can  go  a  stej)  farther.  It  has  been  maintained  by 
some  writers  on  art  who  attempt  to  refute  everything,  that  the  discovery  of  painting  in  oil 
had  been  already  made  for  the  brothers.  The  whole  merit  awarded  to  these  painters  is, 
that  they  established  a  proper  management  in  the  mixing  of  colours  suitable  to  the  oily  sub- 
stance already  |)rep;u-ed  for  them.  Let  us  admit  this;  still,  the  Eycks,  more  particularly 
Johann,  were  the  first  artists  who,  with  masterly  hand,  knew  how  to  apply  oil  colours  to  the 
art  of  picture  painting.  This  would  appear  the  chief  ailvantage  which  the  art  gained.  The 
monk,  Berthold  Sclnvarz,  did  not  invent  gun-powder  for  the  soldier,  but  the  imknown  party 
who  first  tested  its  })ower  by  discharging  a  quantity  ot  it  from  an  iron  tube — he  it  was  who 
discovered  how  to  apply  it. 

Provided  with  means  which  no  painter  before  him  possessed,  Johann  van  Eyck  ac- 
quired a  power  over  colour;  he  gave  a  brightness  to  it  which  surpassed  that  of  any  other 
painter  of  his  time.  Every  thing  in  his  pictures  sparkles  as  if  acted  upon  by  the  rays  of  a 
tropical  sun.  The  greatest  delicacy  and  transparency  are  mingled  by  him  with  intensity  of 
colour.  The  blending  of  these  strong  coloiu's  was  to  him  unknown,  arid  he  ^^•ould  scarcely 
have  had  the  resolution  to  infringe  ujion  their  splendour  by  blending  them. 

The  same  glistering  colours  that  we  find  in  the  foreground,  are  in  the  background 
unbroken  by  the  hazy  mass  of  blue  and  grey  tones  for  clouds  in  the  distance.  The  very 
rich  green  in  the  immediate  Ibreground  becomes,  as  it  advances  towards  the  middle  of  the 
subject,  less  corporeal;  it  grows  higher  by  degrees  and  when  it  reaches  the  distance  it  appears 
absolutely  fcthereal;  but  the  ground  colour  is  strictly  preserved,  it  never  looks  in  the  slightest 
degree  yellow  or  blue.  The  oily  diflx>rence  perceptible  is  that,  in  the  extreme  distance,  the 
remarkable  glow  of  the  foreground  is  lost. 

The  fervour  depicted  in  the  figui-es  of  the  Eycks — we  allude  here  chiefly  to  Johann 
^contrasts  singularly  with  the  hilarity  of  the  colouring.  It  is  a  pecuHar  world  into  which 
the  pictures  of  Johann  van  Ej'ck  lead  us.  His  Madonnas,  his  figures  of  Christ,  appear  be- 
.'  re  us  with   a  sublime  repose  and  a  childlike  candour.    As  we  may  sujipose,  they  are  not 

G.iHories  of  Vienna.  9 


6f)  THE  GALLERIES  OF   VIENNA. 

in  need  of  our  ailniiration  or  devout  feeling;  they  exist  a|)])arently  for  their  own  sake,  like  the 
antique  Hellenic  statues.  There  is  a  feeling  of  the  old  type  in  both  these  figures,  an  adherence 
to  his  usual  perceptions, — though  the  heads  are  imbued  with  a  certain  individuality  and  marked 
expression  of  fcatui'cs,  a  sadness  pre\ails  over  the  countenances  which  is  truly  affecting  to 
the  beholder.  The  sentiment  which  the  painter  intended  to  convey  is  perfectly  intelligible; 
the  tieatment  of  the  subject  is  judicious;  the  general  effect  is  that  of  a  scene,  full  of  inno- 
cent and  solemn  feelings. 

The  other  figures  in  his  biblic-historical  pictures  have  frequently  the  appearance  of 
portraits;  there  is  no  ideality  in  the  countenances,  but  the  ex[)ression  of  features  perfectly 
corresponds  with  their  relative  situations.  Where  composure  and  refined  feeling  are  essen- 
tially developed,  Johann  van  Eyck  stands  first  on  the  list  of  his  conteiiii)orarics.  The  treat- 
ment of  his  subject  flows  from  his  soul,  and  the  piece  breathes  a  tender  sentiment  without 
descending  to  insipidity. 

Johann  van  Eyck  laboured  between  two  periods  of  art.  It  cannot  be  affirmed  that 
his  style  was  determinate,  for,  according  to  his  system  of  development,  he  belongs  equally 
to  the  old  school  of  painting  as  its  last  master,  and  to  the  new  stjde  as  its  first  chamjiion, 
who  left  to  the  artists  of  after  ages  to  accomplish  that  which  he  had  begun. 

In  his  earliest  productions  Eyck  observed  strict  symmetry  in  his  compositions,  and  fol- 
lowed the  established  type  in  the  portrayal  of  holy  persons.  The  arrangement  of  his  dra- 
peries was  in  accordance  with  the  heavy  imelastic  style  of  the  German  artists  of  the  four- 
teenth century:  and  although  in  sculpture  the  ideal  style  of  the  early  Christians  had 
gained  ground,  still  he  shewed  no  disposition  to  renounce  the  taste  wliii'h  lie  had  once 
imbibed. 

The  figures  in  the  early  pictures  of  Johann  van  Eyck  were  attired  in  a  very  simple 
dress,  over  which  was  thrown  a  sort  of  cloak  somewhat  resenibling  that  of  a  priest  at  mass. 
This  cloak  is  fastened  on  the  breast  by  a  clasp;  the  extremities  hang  down  on  either  side, 
leaving  the  upper  part  of  the  figure  free.  In  the  folds  of  the  drapery,  in  symmetrical  arrange- 
ment, appear  numerous  plaits  and  angles,  introduced  withoiit  reference  to  tiic  position  of 
the  figures. 

If  Johann  van  Eyck  took  for  his  model  the  face  of  a  living  person  in  the  ro])reseii- 
tation  of  a  Madonna,  he  arranged  the  drapery  to  correspond  with  tiie  individual  character  of 
the  face.  These  INIadonnas  are  draped  according  to  the  usual  costume  of  the  wealthy 
Netherlanders  of  the  period.  The  long  narrow  sleeves  with  turned  u])  cuffs,  and  the  bodice 
with  apparently  impossible  plaits  and  lacings,  the  gaudy  petticoat  of  gold  stuff  and  the  velvet 
gown.  The  rumpled  plaits,  which  appear  to  be  intentionally  introduced  in  this  costume, 
have  a  very  singular  effect.  Amongst  these  pictures  of  van  Eyck's,  evidently  painted  from 
the  life,  manj'  master-pieces  are  to  be  found.  There  is  a  force  and  a  truth  in  them  which 
speaks  for  itself,  and  the  beholder  need  not  lose  himself  in  historical  abstraction. 

Johann  van  Eyck,  after  he  had  mastered  the  difficulties  of  colouring,  seems  to  have 
got  over  that  want  of  freedom  so  perceptible  in  some  of  his  works,  and  his  style  became  more 
and  more  elevated.  His  compositions,  which,  earlier,  seemed  crippled,  took  a  decided  change. 
They  became  hj  degrees  less  symmetrical,  and  suited  themselves  more  appropriately  to  what 
the  subject  demanded  in  the  position  of  the  figures,  not  leaving  the  burthen  of  the  story  to 
be  discovered  alone  in  the  expression  of  the  faces. 


TIIK   ll<il>Y    VlH(ilN,  AKTEK  .UiHANN   VAN   KYCK.  B7 

In  the  a])])ei>raii<'e  of  the  principal  persons,  in  the  subjects  taken  from  the  New  Tes- 
t;iinent,  tliere  hreatlies  a  curi'ent  of  tlie  antique.  Tlie  priests"  formal  mantle  is  thrown  aside. 
The  Holy  Virtfin,  for  instance,  appears  in  a  tunic  which  might  equally  well  have  covered 
one  of  tiie  stern  female  figures  ol'  (ireeU  mythology;  a  peplos  envelopes  the  upper  part  of 
the  body.  The  apostle  and  tlie  Redeemer  even  are  attired  in  a  garment  somewhat  re- 
sembling the  tt)ga.  The  folds  of  the  draperies  are  highly  picturesque,  and  tluiinL;li  the  dra- 
pery in  general  may  be  jiartially  iliscorned  the  forms  of  the  figure;  they  are  delicately  hiiucd 
only,  and  scrupulously  free  from  vulgarity  and  hardness  ol'  outline.  The  t'olds,  it  is  true,  are 
seldom  in  large  masses,  but  they  harmonize  well  with  the  subject.  The  minutest  crumpled 
plaits,  even  here,  are  arranged  so  as  to  follow  the  chief  movements  of  the  more  heavy 
drapery. 

The  figures  of  less  individual  importance,  whether  in  subjects  from  the  Old  or  the 
New  Testament,  and  whicii  form  but  integrals,  give  rather  an  i<lea  of  real  life.  Christ, 
Maria,  and  the  Apostle,  and  some  prominent  saints  are  treated  ideally,  making  the  other  figures 
a])pear  but  as  creatures  ol' this  earth:  they  seem  to  be  portraits  of  Netherlandish  nobility, 
distinguished  characters  accoutred  as  knight  warriors,  or  attired  in  Turkish  costume.  The 
painter  must  have  had  a  thorough  knowledge  of  these  costiuues,  if  we  may  judge  from  the 
accuracy  with  which  they  are  executed  in  these  pictures.  Johann  van  Eyck  is  always 
sober,  grand,  and  exalted  in  his  ideas.  According  to  our  jiresent  notions  with  regard 
to  the  draping  of  figures  in  sacred  history,  these  re])resentati(ms  of  van  Eyck's  strike  us  as 
somewhat  inapposite,  although  they  may  please  us  by  their  being  characteristic  of  the  period 
in  which  they  were  painted. 

Ah'cady,  in  the  time  of  van  Eyck,  a  disposition  amongst  tlie  }setlierlaiulers  began  to 
siiew  itself,  of  portraying  the  natural  appearance  of  objects  with  a  great  precision  of  imitation. 
Eyck  occasionally  produced  heads  with  all  the  exactness  of  Gerard  Dow-  or  Mieris,  and, 
although  they  were  worked  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  finish,  they  always  retained  an  in- 
tellectuality in  the  countenances  which  we  so  often  find  wanting  in  the  pictures  of  those  two 
"masters.  Indejiendently  of  the  extremely  fine  touch  oliservable  in  Eyck's  heads,  they  are 
remarkable  for  the  free  ifnd  easy  style  with  which  they  were  treated.  This  master  exercised 
his  powers  most  eflPectively  in  the  representation  of  stulfs  used  as  drapery,  of  shining  metals, 
and  the  lustre  of  precious  stones  and  pearls.  The  imitation  of  these  auxiliaries  in  his  sub- 
ject he  brought  to  a  most  surprising  degree  of  jiertbction.  To  such  an  extent  did  he  indulge 
in  elaborate  imitation  and  finish,  that  the  merest  trifles  in  his  subjects  were  Avorked  up  with 
such  delicacy  and  correctness  that  they  may  be  said  to  form  subjects  of  tiiemselves  in  a  little 
woi'ld  of  their  own.  In  the  works  of  this  painter  there  is  nothing  left  unfinished;  there  is  a 
calm  repose  about  them  which  imparts  itself  to  the  beholder. 

Having  once  entered  into  the  merits  and  acknowledged  the  beauty  of  these  pictures, 
and  admitted  the  correctness  with  which  they  have  been  copied  from  nature,  we,  upon  a 
more  minute  examination,  are  struck  by  the  great  gulf  existing  between  the  appearance  of 
nature,  and  the  appearance  of  olijects  intended  so  closely  to  resemble  nature,  in  van  Eyck's 
pictures.  The  colouring  is  not  less  wonderful  in  this  artist's  works.  The  colours  are  laid  on 
with  a  vigour  and  -^'ivacity  as  if  they  were  intended  to  vie  with  those  of  the  natural  objects 
around  them.  The  local  colour  is  always  predominant;  it  stands  out  on  all  sides  with  un- 
diminished energy,  and  forces  for  the  subjects,  from  the  highest  to  the  lowest,  a  particular 


68  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

consideration.  Tliere  arc  laru't'  nia.-ises  of  light  and  shadow  in  Eyck's  works,  but  the  light  is 
never  used  to  leiiulate  tlie  hriiliancy  of  the  colo>irs:  it  serves  only  to  justify  the  legitimacy 
of  the  local  colours.  In  this  respect  Eyck's  picture  are  jjerfectly  at  variance  with  nature. 
A  most  singula)-  distinctness  exists  in  every  part  of  the  piece.  In  nature  wc  find  masses  of 
dee] I  shadow,  hut  in  E\'ck"s  representations  transparency  reigns  throughout.  It  is  very  rc- 
nuiikalilc  that,  notwithstanding  this  [)eculiar  transparency,  indixidual  objects  in  the  j)ic'i!re 
stand  out  in  liold  relief.  Tliis  is  to  I)e  attriliuted  to  tjie  extraordijiary  fine  grad.ation  of  the 
tints,  which,  witlmut  a  special  comparison  with  the  lights  and  shadows,  would  scarcely  he  ob- 
served. Ai  the  first  glance  we  could  scarcely  allow  that  so  great  a  dittcrence  e.xists  between 
the  highest  lights  and  deepest  shadows:  the  reason  is  that  the  character  of  the  local  colours 
in  both  extremes  are  so  firmly  kept.  In  Tizian's  we  find  something  similar,  wliicli  gives  ro- 
tnnd'ty-  apparently  without  changing  the  local  tones. 

A  little  gem  of  van  Eyck's — a  Madonna  suckling  the  iniant  Jesus — is  in  the  Bel- 
vedere Gallery  of  Vienna.  The  Madonna  is  represented  as  standing  before  a  throne. 
Her  countenance  is  indescribably  serene.  A  crown  of  pearls  bedecks  her  head,  which 
is  gently  bowed.  The  light  hair,  most  beautifully  ])ainted,  hangs  over  her  shoulders.  Not 
one  of  the  old  Italian  masters — before  Ra])hael — produced  a  head  equal  to  this.  The  drapery 
is  free  and  luiaft'ected:  in  parts  exquisite.  The  backgroiuid  in  the  form  of  a  niche  is  orna- 
mented with  brilliant  foliage-work.  Outside  of  the  jiicture,  in  the  architectural  Irame  and  on 
consoles,  stand  Adam,  driven  by  an  angel  with  upraised  sword,  and  K\e,  with  the  apple  in 
her  hand,  listening  to  the  snake,  with  a  human  head,  which  has  entwined  itself  in  the  bramlies 
of  a  tree  and  is  looking  down  upon  her. 

Another  very  fine  sj)ecimen  of  this  master,  in  the  same  Gallery,  is  the  "Dead  Christ,"'  at 
the  foot  of  Mount  Calvary,  surrounded  by  Mary  and  seven  saints.  The  head  ot  a  beardless 
young  man,  attired  in  a  brown  fur  cloak  and  a  cap  of  peculiar  form,  afi^ords  a  proof  of 
van  Eyck's  powers  as  a  portrait  painter.  The  outlines  are  sharp  and  cri-p,  but  the  drapiriesi 
are  full  of  relief  and  transparency. 

The  most  celebrated  work,  on  which  the  two  l)rothers  employed  their  united  tab  :its, 
was  the  .Mtar-piece  in  Ghent — the  adoration  of  the  lamb.  This  consisted  of  twelve  tables, 
which  fortunately  escaped  the  iconoclasts,  but  in  the  year  1749  fell  a  sacrifice  to  the  ))lundering 
hands  of  the  French.  The  four  centre  pictures  were  carried  oflT  to  the  museum  ol'  "the  great 
nation."'  The  eight  jiictures  which  remained  were  concealed  by  the  prebendary  of  the  church 
ol  St.  Bavon.  Six  of  these  were  despotically  sold  and  |)laced  in  a  [irivate  collection,  iiut  they 
afterwards  came  into  the  possession  of  King  Frederick  Wilhelm  III.  ol'  Prussia. 

This  piece,  viz.  the  twelve  pictures  together,  was  so  striking  in  its  imiiersonation.  that 
it  was  considered  a  miracle.  The  prebendaries  of  St.  Bavon  did  all  they  could  to  keep  up 
the  reputation  of  the  picture,  though,  at  the  same  time,  they  rendered  access  to  it  more  dif- 
ficult. This  work  of  art,  with  its  folding  pictm-es,  could  i)e  closed  like  a  cabinet,  and  tliere 
were  two  other  unessential  figures  of  life  size,  lightly  and  weakly  [lainted,  on  the  back  parts 
of  the  screen  which  served  as  doors, 

T^hese,  except  on  St.  John's  day  and  other  high  festixals  of  the  church,  remained 
closed.  Wealthy  travellers,  who  were  liberal  in  their  donations,  sometimes  gained  permission 
to  vievv  this  picture  of  the  holy  'lamb,'  but  it  was  considered  a  great  favour.  If  the  princelj' 
personages  of  Ghent  made  any  stay  in  the  town,  and  desired  to  shew  a  marked  proof  of  their 


THE  HOLY  VIRGIN,  AFTER  JOHANX  VAN  EYCK.  69 

attention,  they  entered  into  an  arrangement  with  the  prebendariea  of  St.  John  and  St.  Bavon 
for  the  exhibition  of  the  picture  of  the  lamb.  The  clergy,  however,  did  not  shew  all,  in 
order  that  the  ray  of  mystery  which  enveloped  the  picture  might  not  be  violated.  The  naked 
figures  of  Adam  and  Eve  were  withheld  from  the  spectators. 

The  richness  in  the  composition  of  the  master-piece  of  the  two  brothers,  and  its  equi- 
site  execution  and  finish,  were  indeed  enough  to  create  astonishment.  The  lower  part  of  the 
middle  picture  has  a  luxuiious  landscape  with  dazzling  sunshine — meadows  and  fields,  forest 
and  stream,  rocks  and  mountains.  In  this  landscape  stands  a  pedestal  resembling  an  altar 
on  which  is  the  laml).  From  its  breast  a  stream  of  blood  flows  into  a  glittering  cup.  The 
lamb  is  surrounded  by  angels.  In  the  background  is  the  celestial  Jerusalem:  in  a  long  train 
from  thence,  to  the  right,  is  the  army  of  male,  and  to  the  left,  that  of  female  martyrs  approach- 
ing to  adore  the  lamb.  In  the  immediate  foreground  are  the  representatives  of  the  clergy 
and  the  laymen  sunk  in  profound  adoration. 

Above,  the  regions  of  heaven  are  opened.  Here  sits  God  the  father,  a  figure  which 
in  the  nuinner  of  rej)resentatiiin  has  nothing  in  common  with  the  Italians.  These  usually 
painteil  the  Almiglit}'  Creator  of  the  world  as  an  old  figure  with  a  long  beard;  whereas  the 
Eycks  represent  him  as  a  man  in  the  ]irimc  of  life,  with  no  appearance  vehatever  of  old  age 
coming  upon  him.  God  tlie  father  bears  the  j)opish  tiara:  the  surplice  and  under  garments  are 
red,  like  the  clouds  which  pass  before  tlie  sun,  their  edges  liriglit  from  his  golden  rays.  On 
the  right  of  the  Father  sits  'enthroned'  Maiy  with  a  brilliant  crown  on  her  head  and  a  liook 
in  her  liand:  on  the  left  of  the  Creator  is  the  figure  of  John  the  B»ptist.  wh(i  also  holds  a 
book  in  liis  hand. 

These  three  figures,  in  the  contour  of  their  faces,  in  the  symmetry  of  their  drapery,  re- 
mind us  of  the  sculpture-like  pictures  of  earlier  age-,  which  aj)peared  homogeneous  « ith  the 
architectural  forms  of  the  temple.  But  there  is  an  e\ident  principle  of  a  new  life  in  tbe 
appearance  of  the  flesh,  which  has  a  blooming  colour  of  healthy  freshness.  The  drapery  in 
its  scorching  red,  the  splendid  ornament  of  precious  metal,  the  jewels  and  the  nobk-  chrystals, 
lead  us  back  again  to  the  realities  of  life.  This  combination  of  the  typical  with  the  literal 
produces  a  singular  impression.  A  strictness  of  symmetry  is  combined  with  the  gracefulness 
of  life.     In  this  respect  this  work  of  the  two  brothers  lays  claim  to  no  ordinary  merit. 

When  the  altar  was  shut  ujj,  this  picture  was  closed  in  by  the  pictures  whicli  formed 
the  folding  doors.  On  the  inner  side  of  these  doors  were  Mary  the  mother  of  Jesus  and 
John  the  Baptist,  with  a  chorus  of  angels.  Aljove  John  was  the  figure  of  St.  Cecilia  ]ilaying 
the  organ.  The  angels  wear  surplices  ol'  gold  brocade,  and  diadems  on  their  i'orehcads. 
The  two  upper  doors  were  those  which  represented  the  figures  of  Adam  and  Eve.  Instead 
of  an  apple,  Eve  hands  Adam  a  green  fig.  Over  the  picture  of  Adam  was  Cain's  sacrifice, 
over  that  of  Eve  the  death  of  Abel. 

Below,  near  the  chief  picture,  a  double  procession  is  represented.  On  one  side  ap- 
proach the  Jioly  pilgrims  under  the  conduct  of  St.  Christopher;  on  the  other,  the  holy  hermits 
wend  their  way  through  a  raw,  dark,  narrow-valley,  between  the  rocks,  towards  the  altar  of 
the  lamb.  There  are  two  other  folding  doors  corresponding  with  these,  on  which  are  repre- 
sented the  righteous  judges  and  the  righteous  disputants  of  Christ — Justi  Judices  et  Christi  milites. 

The  warriors  are  preceded  in'  three  men  bearing  banners.  These  are  the  personifica- 
tions of  the  three  aljied  brothers  in  arms,  who,  led  b^-  their  Count,  marched  to  the  Holy  Land. 


70  THK  GALLEKIES  OF  VIENNA. 

The  first  party  entered  the  field  with  the  bow,  having  for  their  patron  St.  Sebastian,  who. 
It  IS  well  known,  was  shot  by  arrows.  The  second  formed  the  crossbow  band;  St.  George 
was  then-  patron.  The  third  was  composed  of  gladiators,  with  lance  and  sword,  under  the 
patronage  of  the  Archangel  Michael.  In  this  picture  is  seen  the  canonized  Lewis  IX.  of 
France,  and  a  Roman  emperor,  who  is  supposed  to  be  either  Frederick  Barbarossa  or 
Charlemagne.  Amongst  the  righteous  judges  are  represented  the  brothers  van  Evck. 
Iluybrecht  appears  as  an  aged  man  riding  on  a  white  horse.  Johann  van  Eyck  is  middle 
aged,  has  a  fine,  intellectual  countenance,  and  an  eye  penetrating  and  full  of  expression. 

On  some  particular  pictures  appears  the  holy  virgin  as  she  receives  the  annunciation 
from  the  angel,  sibyls,  the  two  Johns,  the  figures  of  those  who  founded  the  altar,  Jodocus 
Vyts,  and  his  wife  Lisbetha  Borlout. 

This  striving  after  a  pure  universality  of  representation  is  characteristic  of  the  brothers 
van  Eyck.  It  was  carried  out  with  a  po«er  which  has  not  been  excelled  by  any  other  who 
practised  the  highest  department  of  art.  Like  Albrecht  Diirer,  they  seize  upon  every  object,  and, 
begmnmg  with  a  simple  portrait,  they  conduct  the  beholder  through  the  career  of  sublunary 
bemgs,  and  carry  him  with  them  to  the  world  of  immateriality.  The  van  Eycks  never  lose 
their  footing;  they  portray  nothing  that  is  impossible  in  itself ;  they  aim  at  expressing  more  than 
the  mere  play  of  their  fancy;  they  present  more  than  the  strange  complexity  of  fantastic  con- 
ceptions which  we  cannot  elude  in  the  old  German  school,  down  to  the  latest  epigones  ofDurer. 
Working  on  the  princijile  of  truth  to  nature,  it  often  happened  to  the  van  Eycks 
that,  when  they  aspire(J  beyond  real  life,  they  became  perplexed  and  could  not  take  a 
spritual  flight.  They  are  always  sabstantiaJ,-after  a  long  lapse  of  years,  they  are  sufficiently 
nervous  and  enlightened  to  claim  our  sympathies  for  their  works. 


THE    WATERFALL. 

AFTER 

ALDERT  VAN  EVERDINGEN. 


Magnificent  and  broad  masses  of  light  constitute  one  of  the  beauties  which  we  find  in 
the  pictures  of  Everdingen.  The  waves  of  the  sea  dash  madly  against  the  firm  and  gloomy 
rocks,  or,  as  though  earth  had  no  power  to  contend  against  the  hostile  element,  they  roll  and 
cast  their  surge  far  into  the  desolate  and  barren  strand.  The  gull  and  the  pevvit,  scarcely 
able  to  sustain  themselves  in  the  air,  fly  along  the  lonely  beach,  screaming  their  melancholy 
note.  A  vessel,  borne  by  the  swelling  wave,  rapidly  approaches.  Her  sails,  in  the  conten- 
tion torn  from  their  ropes,  flap  wildly,  and  she  is  exposed  to  the  mercy  of  the  storm.  Power- 
less is  the  hand  of  man  to  guide  the  ship  to  her  destined  port,  to  steer  her  course  against 
the  dreadful  hurricane.  See,  there,  the  gaping  chasm  in  the  cliff'  is  ready  to  receive  her, 
there  and  no  farther— it  is  enough— the  craft  is  dashed  to  pieces,  and,  in  another  moment, 
the  crew  are  struggling  for  their  lives,  but  presently  sink  from  exhaustion. 


-"  ■'/I    //■/r^JcJ/'^a.^^S 


..^ 


/:^iz^,^<^/ . 


llrucltuYetfaf  dEn^i 


A  H.Payrus  Leipzig  und 


THE  WATERFALL,  AFTER  ALDERT  VAN  EVERDINGEN..  71 

In  another  picture  of  Everdingen's  the  storm  i.s  likewise  raging.  The  waters  on  tlie 
horizon  appear  to  be  engaged  in  violent  contention  with  the  heavy  rolling  clouds.  The 
lightning  flashes  over  the  swelling  waves.  A  pilot  boat  is  discovered,  tossed  about  like  a 
feather  on  the  tops  of  the  foaming  mountains  of  water.  Firm  as  the  oak  from  which  the 
planks  of  their  vessel  were  cut  out  are  the  hearts  of  the  pilots.  They  set  at  defiance  all  that 
seems  terrible  on  the  stormy  ocean;  they  render  assistance  to  a  stranded  vessel  whose  form 
is  but  just  perceptible  through  the  pouring  rain  in  the  distance. 

Again  we  meet  with  one  of  Everdingen's  light  effects.  But  this  time  "the  lion  is 
caught;"  it  is  the  water  of  a  river  confined  between  two  huge  masses  of  stone,  thence  des- 
cending a  declivity.  Beautiful  trees,  whose  high  branches  are  in  full  foliage,  luxuriate  above 
the  cataract.  A  foot-path  takes  a  winding  direction  over  the  rock,  and  leads  to  a  small  cot- 
tage, whose  roof  is  gilded  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun. 

Another  pictm-c  introduces  water  rendered  subservient  to  the  convenience  and  the  use  of 
man — a  mountain  brook  flows  down  upon  tlie  powerful  wheel  of  a  small  mill.  How  snugly 
lies  the  little  house  in  the  deep  dale  between  the  hills,  its  walls  moistened  by  the  light  spray 
of  the  water,  so  refreshing  the  creeping  plants  which  vigorously  cling  to  them,  and  affording 
nourishment  to  the  rich  clumps  of  bushes  in  their  immediate  vicinity!  This  little  place,  so 
retired  from  the  world,  would  give  us  a  feeling  of  melancholy,  were  it  not  for  the  eternal 
playing  of  the  running  brook,  changing  witli  every  moment,  and  yet  still  the  same:  keeping 
oiu'  sj)irits  at  an  even  temperature,  and  sustaining  them  by  an  inexhaustible  change  in  the 
appearance  of  one  uniform  beauty  being  sul)stituted  for  another. 

Few  masters  have  excelled  Everdingen  in  the  sprightly  details  connected  with  moving 
waters,  and  at  the  same  time  have  been  able  to  preserve  tiie  greatness,  the  majestic  effect 
and  harmony  for  which  he  laboured  so  successfully.  There  are  not  many  pictures  of  tiie 
Dutch  school  which,  when  placed  at  the  same  distance  from  the  eye  of  the  beholder,  would 
exhibit  the  same  features  of  distinctness  so  perfectly  as  those  of  Everdingen.  The  works 
even  of  Rembrandt,  with  all  their  powerful  effects  in  the  large  pictures  themselves,  will  not 
bear  to  be  viewed  from  any  great  distance,  otherwise  the  harmony  of  the  liglit  and  colouring 
would  be  partially  lost.  At  a  certain  distance  most  of  the  pictures  of  this  magician  over 
chiaroscuro  appear  indistinct,  confused,  because  his  masses  of  light  and  shadow  possess  in 
few  cases  clear,  united  forms.  We  need  to  be  acquainted  with  the  necessary  details  in  Rem- 
brandt, the  transition,  the  fine  reflected  lights,  in  order  that  his  high  lights  and  colouring  may 
be  intelligible. 

There  is  much  more  unison  and  simplicity  of  detail  in  the  pictures  of  Everdingen. 
He  never  endeavoured  to  harmonize  incongruities  by  means  of  his  art,  nor,  like  Rembrandt, 
by  a  brilliant  solution  of  them,  use  his  powers  to  astonish  the  beholder.  He  understood  how 
to  embrace  the  great  features  of  natural  scenery,  and  entered  into  detail  only  so  far  as  it 
was  necessary  for  the  achievement  of  harmonious  feeling. 

If  we  miss  anything  in  Everdingen's  works  it  is  the  detail.  We  may  stand  a  long  time 
before  his  pictures  without  making  this  remark.  Enchanted  by  the  effect  of  his  colouring, 
we  fancy  we  see  the  detail,  whereas  the  painter  has  been  working  up  his  own  grand  effect. 
If  we  examine  the  etchings  of  this  artist,  we  shall  then  discover  how  far,  according  to  his 
judgment,  minutiae  in  painting  are  admissible.    We  shall  find  them  more  hinted  at  than  carried 


72  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

out.  We  here  find  a  rather  irregular  hatching,  boldly  touehed,  which,  on  a  close  inspection, 
appears  frequently  coarse,  Iiut  is  admirably  fitted  to  support  the  illusion  of  a  finished  detail, 
which  is  indeed  not  given. 

These  harmonious  elements  in  Everdingen's  pictures,  even  in  his  most  violent  sea  storms, 
serve  to  convey  an  impression  of  stability,  an  idea  of  confident  power,  like  in  nature  herself. 

The  harmonious  style  of  Everdingen's  breathes  however  its  full  effect,  not  in  these  ter- 
rible ebullition  of  n.ature,  represented  in  his  sea  pieces,  but  in  his  landscajies  of  a  quiet  and 
idyllic  character.  Here  all  is  calm  and  serene,  and  only  his  sparkling  effects  of  light  give 
for  the  moment  an  idea  of  motion.  The  most  simple  scenery  he  depicts  with  such  truth  and 
feeling  that  the  atmosphere  seems  to  breathe  around. 

In  the  works  of  this  painter  the  lights  are  always  clear,  and  the  perspective  excellent. 
His  backgrounds,  more  esjiecially  when  mountainous,  are  worked  up  into  a  hazy  tint,  re- 
minding us  of  Clautle  Lorrain. 

Everdingen  was  one  of  those  artists  who  could  produce  much  with  paucity  of  ma- 
terial. A  hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  runs  a  rippling  brook,  the  figures  of  a  man  and  woman 
sittinc  on  the  grass;  an  old  bridge  over  a  sjnooth  running  river,  with  a  little  village  in  the 
backo-round— a  man  with  a  bundle  over  his  shoulder  is  crossing  tlie  bridge;  a  cottage  on  the 
bank  of  the  river;  a  puddle  in  which  lie  two  planks  of  wood;  in  the  background  a  peasant  on  a 
wooden  bridge;  a  shepherd  with  a  pair  of  goats  or  sheep;  a  boatman  bringing  in  his  craft  amongst 
the  rushes  near  the  bank  of  a  river — in  short  he  endowed  the  simplest  scenes  with  poetical  interest. 

Aldert,  or  Allert,  van  Everdingen  was  a  pupil  of  Roland  Savery's  and  Peter-  de  Mo- 
lyn's  (Tempesta).  Hia  sea  pieces,  although  they  are  as  powerful  as  those  of  Tempesta's, 
are  clearer,  more  carefully  treated,  and  in  every  way  superior  to  the  last  named  master,  who 
o-ave  too  much  scope  to  his  fancy,  and  possessed  not  the  knowledge  of  his  scholar  in  poifat 
of  harmony. 

Everdingen  was  born  at  Alkmaar,  in  1621,  where  he  studied  theology,  and  was  a  very 
different  man  to  Tempesta,  for  he  was  mild  in  his  manners,  and  shewed  a  due  regard  for 
religion.    He  died  in  1675. 


THE  EVENING  PARTY, 


AFTER 

GEEKARD  DOW. 


Of  all  the  Dutch  miniaturist's  Gerhard  Dow  may  be  said  to  make  the  most  lasting 
impression  upon  us.  In  his  rei^reseniations,  he  combined  the  beauties  of  his  rivals  in  ca- 
binet painting,  and  excelled  them  ali.in  poetical  feeling. 

Terburg,  in  his  best  pictures,  portrays  in  the  countenances  of  his  figures  such  a  droll 
— but  always  quiet — expression,  that  the  beholder  is  usually  impressed  with  the  idea  that  there 
is  something  more  in  the  subject  than  the  artist  had  depicted,  that  there  must  be  an  event  con- 
nected with  it,  with  which  the  figures  in  the  composition  only  are  acquainted.  As  an  in- 
stance, we  will  take  a  trumpeter,  a  favourite  figure  of  this  master.     He  brings  a  letter  to  an 


3-D<?n^-  /lin^- 


^ 


'^us- 


BruciuVeriaeaEnSUaclienKuiiatMatflllvAHFayne,  LeipiiJ  ft  Dresden 


THE  KVKNIN(i    I'AU'I  V.  AKTKK  OEIUlAKlJ   I)()VV.  73 

ollfiper  who  reads  it  witli  p('<'iiliar  attciilinn.  Wp  arrive'  at  tlu'  conclusion  that  the  sergeant, 
pcrliaps  alter  a  hard  nij;ht"s  ride  throuLjli  \\\w\  and  dust,  has  hroiijilit  tlio  cavalier  a  inarchinjr 
onler,  preparatory  to  the  conimeneenient  of  a  l)attle.  We  cannot  do  liettcr  than  accept  thip 
as  the  under  current  of  the  piece.  lie  rai-eiy  takes  any  decided  step  to  express  a  visiMc 
action  in  the  piece,  and  when  lie  does  make  the  attenijit,  he  fails  in  carrying  out  his  ohjcct, 
he  cannot  do  justice  to  his  own  lively  conceptions.  Terhurg  is  most  natural  when  he  re- 
nounces all  imaginative  sulijects,  and  simply  shows  his  |iorhaits  and  coj)ies  of  realities  in 
a  pleasant  position,  and  displays  a  rich  costume  in  full  lustre.  His  effects  ot  light  are  seldom 
independent  of  his  suhject,  they  are,  however,  worked  out  with  cxtraordin.ii y  truth,  and  serve 
to  give  validity  to  the  local  colours. 

Terhurg's  re])resentati(m  of  satin  is  celehrated.  Some  who  were  jealous  of  him  dcchu'cd 
that  a  competent  judge  that  is  of  silk,  not  of  pictures — could  tell  at  one  glance  \\li;it  a 
Rralianter  ell  of  Terhurg's  silk  stuffs  woidd  cost.  To  such  an  extent  is  this  astonishing 
imitation  of  satin  more  especially  carried,  that  in  many  of  his  pictures  it  forms  the  chief  oliject, 
in  fact,  in  comparison,  reduces  the  figures  to  mere  nullities.  AVe  allude  to  some  of  his  lady 
figures,  stately  attired,  washing  their  hands,  &c.  Where  he  introduced  portraits  he  endowed 
them  with  all  their  proper  and  well  ciiosen  characteristics.  These  pictures,  however,  are  not 
often  to  he  met  with,  for  he  paintcil  Imt  few  such:  but  we  frequently  meet  with  his  work  in 
which   the  [tainter's  spirit  seems  to  have  deserted  him. 

Gabriel  Metzu  ranks  next  to  Terburg.  This  master  too  was  very  feeble  in  original 
conceptions.  His  ideas  were  subjected  to  the  observance  of  conventionality.  His  represen- 
tations possess  fine  touches  where  expression  is  required,  but  they  are  never  realTy  full  of  life. 
His  productions  rarely  evince  anything  like  depth  of  feeling.  His  best  composition  is  "The 
sick  Lady,"  now  in  the  museum  of  Berlin.  The  doctor  is  pointing  to  a  portrait  on  the  wall, 
the  likeness  of  a  man  in  military  uniform,  whereby  the  spectator  is  led  to  the  supposition,  that 
the  absence  of  the  lover  or  husband  of  the  lady  is  the  immediate  cause  of  her  indisposition. 
In  his  own  jiortrait,  he  represents  himself  eating  strawberries  with  his  «ife — any  further 
than  that  they  are  both  engaged  in  this  simple  occupation,  there  seems  to  be  no  sort  of  simil- 
arity of  ideas  between  them.  In  the  Belvedere  Gallery  is  a  picture  representing  a  young 
cavalier,  in  company  with  a  rather  pretty  looking  girl  engaged  in  lace  making:  it  i8,  how- 
ever, quite  a  matter  of  doubt  whether  he  was  induced  to  go  to  her,  instigated  by  a  tender 
feeling,  or  whether  it  was  because  he  had  nothing  better  to  do.  Those  pictures  in  which 
Metzu  purposed  to  delineate  a  scene  of  activity  and  animation,  for  instance  a  market  with 
numerous  figures,  evidently  most  of  all  betray  the  weakness  of  the  master.  His  genius  was 
not  Hvely  enough,  nor  was  his  judgment  sufficiently  acute  to  assist  him  in  seizing  an  inte- 
resting moment,  and  in  arranging  his  groups  of  ever  varying  and  moving  figures. 

Franz  Mieris  was  gifted  with  a  power  of  humour  which  frequently  shed  a  ray  of 
eprightliness  over  his  works;  but  he  was  another  whose  genius  was  confined  within  a  very 
small  circle.  Poetic  feeling  seldom  predominates  in  his  pictures.  He  too  frequently  de- 
teriorated the  value  of  his  figures  by  the  introduction  of  numerous  auxiliaries,  which  he 
wrouf^'-t  to  such  a  degree  of  finish,  that  the  figures  themselves  may  be  considered  to  play 
subordinate  parts  in  the  subject.  But  he  had  more  wit — we  cannot  call  it  genius — than 
Terburg  and  Metzu  taken  together,  and  painted  for  the  most  part  as  well  as  either  of  them. 
Mieris,  however,  is  not  so  naive  as  Terburg  and  Metzu;  he  worked  more  for  effect.     The 

Oalleries  of  Vienna.  lil 


74  THE  (SALI.EKIKS  OF  VIENNA. 

Other  two  would  sit  for  hoiir.-i  before  their  canvas,  working  away  without  niakiiifr  any  pro- 
gress, and  quite  unconscious  of  the  total  insignificance  of  their  elahoratioiis. 

After  an  acquaintance  with  the  works  of  the  three  before  niciitiimcd  masters  \vc  are 
better  able  to  form  a  judgment  on  the  comparative  merits  of  (icrhard  J)ow.  Dow  undir- 
stood  the  art  of  awakening  our  feelings,  an  art  in  which  the  other  painters  in  miniatiKc 
were  greatly  deficient.  He  described  the  family  circle,  tlic  charms  oidnmcstic  life,  in  \\hicli  the 
members  lead  an  undisturbed  and  Iia[)j)y,  though  frugal,  existence.  }lv  presents  u-  something 
more  than  the  mere  outside  ajipcarance  of  things:  he  knows  how  to  imbue  his  personifica- 
tions with  a  deeper  interest  than  tliat  which  springs  from  (lr(\-s  or  surniuiurmg  objects.  IT.e 
appiu-tcnanccs  which  he  introduces  are  more  calculated,  aliundant  as  they  are,  t(i  assist  in  the 
development  of  the  intellectual  characteristics  of  his  figures.  They  are  not  given  for  the 
sake  of  filling  up  a  blank  space,  but  they  really  belong  to  the  scene  by  seeming  to  add  to 
the  comforts  of  the  place. 

How  wonderfully  do  his  lights  harmonize,  reminding  us  of  his  master,  Ivembraiidt, 
He  introduces  us  to  an  old  grey-bearded  schoolmaster,  witji  spectacled  nose,  mending  a  pen 
at  the  window,  while  his  scholars  at  the  further  end  of  the  room  arc  lighting  tiie  candles. 
The  stibject  is  -imjdc  enough,  but  it  is  iull  of  life;  it  courts  oiu-  admiration  and  comes  home  to 
our  hearts.  With  such  scenes  as  this  we  are  all  ac(|uaintcd,  and  ll  we  look  arnund  us  and 
view  the  "narrow  world"  of  the  old  man,  we  percei\c  a  charm  in  this  homely  delinc.-ition, 
and  delight  to  breathe  in  its  atmosphere. 

His  hermits,  gold  weighers,  merchants,  astrologers,  and  a  variety  of  other  figures  down 
to  the  servant  maid  — one  of  the  last,  a  girl,  smiling,  standing  at  a  window,  and  holding  a 
light  towards  the  spectator  deserves  especial  notice — glow  with  individual  life,  and  oiu' 
sensations,  when  viewing  them,  entirely  assimilate  with  those  of  the  painter's.  The  picftu-es 
fiUly  tell  their  own  tale,  ])lainly,  unaffectedly,  and  never  I'ail  to  meet  oiu-  sympathy.  In 
this  respect  Dow's  pictures  are  infinitely  superior,  and  betray  more  a'stbetic  feeling  and  genius 
than  can  be  found  in  most  pieces  of  his  rivals. 

In  precision  and  completion  Dow  has  never  iieen  excelled.  Joachim  Sandrart  relates 
that  he  has  heard  Dow  say  that  a  broomstick  has  sometimes  taken  him  three  days  to  paint. 
Notwithstanding  the  infatigabie  exertion  and  the  pains  he  toolv  in  the  portrayal  of  an  inferior 
object — the  very  thought  to  a  painter  of  the  present  day  woidd  be  sufficient  to  mnke  his  hair 
stand  on  end — this  master  finished  upwards  of  sixty  pictures 

When  Dow  departs  from  his  'cond'ortable'  style,  and,  like  Mieris,  endeav(jurs  to 
shine  in  the  rej)resentation  of  the  finer  world,  or  takes  u]i  a  sidyect  containing  an  unusual 
number  of  figures  in  a  state  of  activity  -as  in  his  "Charlatan,"  whose  halt-starved  merrv- 
Andrew  is  just  playing  off  one  of  his  i)ranks  he  disappoints  us:  in  fact,  the  im[)ressioi.  he 
makes  upon  us  is  painful  rather  than  j)lcasing.  His  comicality  is  cold,  and  borders  too 
strongly  on  grimace:  when  he  em[)lovs  his  talents  in  the  rejacsentation  of  a  multitude  of 
figures,  he  seems  at  a  loss  how  to  arrange  them  so  that  they  may  connnand  oiu'  obscrxation 
and  delight. 

-Vn  intimate  knowledge  of  character  is  cxquisitel}'  shown  in  the  picture  of  "  The 
Evening  Party."  At  a  table  with  cue  candle  burning  sits  a  eavali.  r,  playing  at  cards  with  a 
citizen's  wife;  not,  as  it  a])pears,  for  money,  but  for  'love.'  Another  young  man  with  a 
violin   in   his   hand — perhaps   the   husband   of  the  lady   of  the  house— has   looked  into  her 


yyyy. 


^'        >^^>i!?S*:^!>gi«^  ^^W,;;«^Z^<K«^     (2-^^^«%^i!^ 


Druclc  li.  Verla^  d.  En^ischen   Kun: 


REMBRANDT'S  MOTHER,  AFTER  REMRRANDT.  75 

cards,  and  casts  an  cmiuiiiin;  look  at  the  cavalier,  while  he  points  to  one  of  the  cards  in  the 
hand  of  the  good  wife.  With  a  smile  that  he  has  for  some  time  smothered,  he  shews  a 
trump,  while  the  woman,  still  lookinu;  eagerly  at  her  cards,  is  not  aware  that  she  has  lost  the 
game.  The  cavalier  will  prolialdy  insist  upon  a  kiss  as  payment  for  the  amount  of  his 
winnings.  If  we  observe  the  violin,  elevated  hehind  the  woman,  without  a  how,  we  may, 
with  some  degree  of  proliahility,  suppose  that  the  lost  game  was  not  })aid  with  a  kiss  alone. 


?JJ1BRAN1)T\S  MOTHER, 


AFTER 

REMBRANDT. 


Rembrandt  inav  be  called  the  Paracelsus  of  painters;  he  is  an  adept  in  all  in- 
ordinate vagaries  and  strange  contradictions;  he  posses.ses  a  large  piece  of  that  which  Para- 
celsus sought  in  \aiii  -the  philosopher's  stone.  Rembrandt  is  a  very  Proteus:  he  indulges  in 
mystic  extravagancies, now  launching  out  into  low  humour,  now  rising,  now  falling;  and,  in  a 
moment,  aspiring  higher  and  higher,  he  ascends  to  the  regions  of  sublime  imagery.  He  is  a 
restless,  adventurous  spirit;  we  think  we  have  him,  when — lo!  he  dashes  off  into  some  new 
nionstrositv  or  sid)liniity,  playing  upon  our  senses  and  provoking  our  wonder.  He  is 
humorous,  ironical,  and  grotesque ;  a  magician  who  works  a  spell  upon  all  that  comes  under 
his  bewitchino-pencil.  He  regales  us  with  a  frugal  repast,  but  he  understands  the  art  of 
serving  it  up  to  advantage.  Wiile  ravished  by  the  brilliance  of  his  colouring,  we  are  charmed  by 
the  mysterious  and  harmonious  effects  of  light  and  deep  clear  shade,  the  singular  beauties 
for  which  this  master  is  so  eminently  distinguished. 

We  liave  before  us  a  landscape,  composed  of  fields  and  meadow  s,  over  which  are  dis- 
persed a  few-  clumps  of  willows  and  some  alder  trees.  The  broad  field-paths  take  a  winding 
direction  along  the  banks  of  canals,  and  lead  to  divers  little  villages.  Here  and  there  are 
discerned  a  few  farm  houses,  situated  on  raised  spots  of  land,  and  windmills,  built  of  a 
turret  form,  whose  sails  are  visible  from  a  long  distance.  We  all  at  once  discover  the  tall 
mast  of  a  vessel,  with  its  black  ropes,  slowly  and  silently  pursuing  its  course,  ajjparently 
through  the  cornfields.  We  approach  the  singular  appearance,  and,  at  length,  arri\e 
at  the  bank  of  a  shallow  stream,  an  arm  of  that  Rhine  which  so  majestically  flows 
towards  the  neighbouring  countries  and  castles  of  the  Rliinc-pvovinces.  In  the  imme- 
diate fore-ground  of  the  landscape  stands  a  single,  somewhat  delapidated  windmill;  close  by 
a  low  irregular-built  cottage,  or  rather  picturesque  hut,  and  a  few  low  straw-thatched  sheds. 
To  judge  from  the  rude  fence,  the  miller  must  have  had  the  intention  to  form  a  garden, 
but  seems  to  have  given  up  the  idea;  for  the  inclosure  remains  but  half  finished,  and  in 
the  middle  of  the  garden  ground  flourishes  a  self-planted  alder  tree,  whose  branches  are  re- 
flected by  the  almost  stagnant  pond,  on  which  ])arties  of  ducks  arc  making  their  aquatic  ex- 
cursions... This  is  Rembrandt's  dwelling.   The  s^irdy  miller,  whose  i)rawny  hand  is  turning 

10* 


76,  THE  GALLKKIES  OF   VIENNA. 

the  head  of  tlic  mill  in  the  (liiection  of  the  wind,  is  the  painter's  father.  Mynheer  Harmons 
Geviitz,  and  the  woman  with  folded  arms,  standing  before  the  door,  is  the  worthy  miller's 
■wife,  Vniiiw  Cornelia  van  Zuitbroek.  The  village  to  the  left  is  called  Leyerdorp  ;  that  a  little 
further  on  is  Koukcrk,  and,  if  we  follow  the  way  to  the  dam,  we  descry  the  spire  of  the 
celebrated  old  city  of  Leyden. 

If  we  contemplate  this  scene,  destitute  of  all  charms  which  we  are  accustomed  to  look 
for,  and  to  find,  in  a  landscape,  we  involuntarily  search  for  the  objects  which  could  have  served 
to  support  the  development  of  the  powerful,  inexhaustible  fiincy  of  Rembrandt.  The  country 
and  its  appurtenances  are  here,  as  in  most  of  Rembrandt's  pictures,  not  fine;  they  are  tri- 
vial, even  ugly,  and  the  effect  lies  concealed  only  in  the  great,  mental  jiercc[)tions  of  the 
painter.  Rembrandt  had  only  to  look  at  this  poor  ]andsca[)c,  to  cast  a  glance  at  the  raw 
accessories,  and  all  is  full  of  life,  is  poetical,  and  charms  us  liy  the  richness  of  its  bearings. 
This  master  was  eminentlv  successftd  in  castintr  and  conccntratinir  the  broad  liirlits  in  his 
landscapes,  and  produced  wonderful  effects — if  not  liy  other  means — by  the  introduction  of 
a  large  mass  of  clouds.  He  possessed  the  magic  power  of  rendering  all  his  subjects  subser- 
vient to  the  infinite  gradations  of  light  and  shade  wliich  he  so  skilfully  introduced,  and  of 
imparting  to  the  whole  a  romantic  asi)ect,  a  jioetical  feeling,  unri\ ailed  by  any  other  painter  of 
the  |itriod.  A  f'aiiy-lii;e  poesie  presents  itself,  whose  charms  are  far  more  fascinating  if  this 
master  exclude-  the  light  of  day,  and  illumes  his  picture  by  the  light  of  his  ovvn  torch. 

The  remarkable  peculiarities  attending  all  Rembrandt's  works  indicate  an  imdisturbed 
development  of  a  rich  sentiment.  They  rei)resent  the  dreaming  fantasy,  which,  in  a  per- 
fect state  of  ease  and  re])o-<',  overtakes  us  Inuntni  beings.  We  nnist  view  them  as  we  do 
a  legend. 

His  figures,  generally  speaking,  are  not  what  can  be  called  beautiful;  there  is  a 
strangeness  about  them — an  inconsistency — which  we  in  vain  endcavoiu-  to  account  for.  These 
pictures  raise  matters  of  every  day  life  to  scenes  of  mystery  and  wonder:  but  a  poetic  feeling 
pervade^  the  whole,  poetic  sentiment  reigns  sujireme,  ami,  like  a  fairy  tale,  so  acts  upon  us 
for  the  time  that  we  would  fain  begin  to  believe  in  impossibilities  1 

Rembrandt  was  born  on  the  l.'ith.  of  ,Iunc,  1606,  and  passed  the  early  part  of  his  life 
in  quiet  seclusion  under  his  parental  roof  at  the  mill.  His  mother,  not  wholly  divested  of  a 
certain  degree  <>t  pride,  considering  her  situation,  had  many  relatives,  most  of  whom  were 
protestant  clergymen.  She,  good  woman,  strongly  protested  against  lier  only  son  being 
brought  up  as  a  miller,  and  could  see  no  reason  why;  indeed,  at  length,  iiisisied  upon  his  being 
educated  i'm  a  Tkiutine.  His  worthy  father,  Mynheer  Geiritz,  suffered  himself  to  be  per- 
suaded by  his  "better  half,"  and  presently  raised  the  means  for  placing  the  youth  at  the 
Latin  school  of  Leyden.  Rembrandt  was  soon  entrusted  to  the  I'are  ami  tuition  ot  the 
learned  gentlemen  of  that  city.  How  long  he  remained  there  his  biogra pliers  do  not 
state.  Our  business  is  simj)ly  to  state  the  fact,  that  the  youth  who  either  could  not,  or  would 
not  learn,  retiiiued  to  his  father  and  mother.  The  fruits  of  his  grammatical  studies  were  that 
he  had  acquired  a  thorough  dislike  to  the  school  and  its  teachers,  and  an  inviiieible  disgust 
for  ever'thint!;  in  the  form  of  learned  lore,  and  for  anvthin<>-  that  tended  to  call  to  his  re- 
collection  his  "student's  days." 

As  to  the  age  at  which  Rembrandt  began  to  study  drawing  and  painting  nothing  definite 
!s  "Known:  it  is,  however,  to  be  presumed,  th^at  his  genius  must  have  indicated  it^clfj  and  that 


REMBRANDT'S  MOTHKK,  AKTEK  KEMRKANDT.  77 

he  studied,  in  his  own  way,  at  a  very  early  peiiiKl  dt  liis  litij.  Tiiis  tjuppof^itioii  is  strengthened 
by  the  assertion  of  the  two  masters,  Peter  I>:istni;mii  and  Jacob  Pinas  of  Amsterdam,  witli 
■whonrhe  was  afterwards  placed,  in  order  to  undergo  a  regular  course  of  study  in  drawing.  "The 
boy,"  declared  these  masters,  "has  acquired  such  an  autodidactic  manner  of  drawing  that  he 
is  totally  spoiled."  The  pujnl  invariably  shewed  a  repugnance  to  begin  to  learn  anything 
that  he  himself  could  not  sec  the  innncdiate  use  of  and,  after  a  time,  a  disagreement  arose 
between  masters  and  pupil;  the  youth  feeling  that  the  point  of  art  which  he  considered  of  the 
greatest  importance,  and  in  which  he  took  the  most  interest,  was  but  little,  or  not  at  all,  under- 
stood by  his  preceptors.  He  ultimately  shewed  a  direct  opjiosition  to  their  system  of 
teaching,  and  continued  to  pursue  his  own  course. 

It  was  not  long  before  Rembrandt  emerged  from  olisciu-ity:  he  persevered  in  his  own 
peculiar  style,  manifesting  the  greatest  indeijcndence,  aud  asserted,  and  maintained  in  the  pro- 
ductions of  his  pencil,  the  very  singular  notions  of  the  art  he  professed.  In  his  modi(s 
operandi  he  was  not  so  expert  as  many  more  experienced  artists,  but  he  appears  to  hav'e  set 
most  conventional  rules  at  defiance. 

Rci.ibrandt's  first  productions  appear  to  have  licen  heads,  those  of  peasants  and  old 
women,  views  of  his  father's  windmill,  and  a  cm-ious  companion  picture  to  the  last — an  ohl 
water-mill  thatched  with  straw  and  indefinite  kinds  of  rubbisii,  having  more  the  appearance 
of  an  earth-heap  than  a  human  dwelling.  Near  the  structure  -if  it  be  worthy  the  title  are  a 
few  bushes  and  a  running  brook.  Rembrandt  was  especially  cautious  in  giving  any  exjjla- 
nation  relative  to  periods  at  which  his  pictures  were  painted,  for  his  works  found  many  ad- ' 
mii-ers  and  were  much  sought:  each  jturchaser  was  desirous  to  know  when  the  j)icture  was 
painted,  and  all  naturally  wished  to  have  one  of  his  last  productions.  This  information  he 
strictly  withheld,  for  he  never  lost  sight  of  his  own  interest. 

It  is  a  fact,  that  young  Rembrandt  took  a  jiidure  with  him  to  the  Hague,  and  dis- 
posed of  it  to  a  rich  person  for  a  hundred  gulden:  but  what  picture  this  was  which  so  in- 
fluenced the  fate  of  the  young  man,  and  determined  him  to  devote  his  whole  time  to  painting, 
is  not  accurately  known.  Elated  by  his  good  fortune,  and,  as  he  himself  said,  imagining 
Holland  to  be  "a  chest  of  golden  gulden,"  he  made  up  his  mind  to  repair  to  Amsterdam. 
This  purpose  he  carried  into  efl^cct.  and  took  up  his  residence  there  in  the  year  16Hl\  he 
being  then  twenty  four  j^ears  of  age. 

An-ived  at  Amsterdam,  he  dropped  the  name  ol  his  lather,  Gerritz,  and  passed  under 
that  of  Rembrandt.  This  name  has  something  enigmatical  about  it.  It  was  originally  a  fa- 
vourite Christian-name  amongst  the  better  class,  btu,  even  in  the  time  of  which  we  are  writing, 
it  was  no  longer  in  vogue,  if  not  quite  out  of  fashion:  in  short,  it  denoted  something  like  a 
nick-name  corresponding  with  our  English  elegant  term  "Carrots."  Is  it  likely  that,  according 
to  their  custom,  the  villagers  had  given  him  this  appellation;  or,  is  it  more  probable,  that  in 
the  city  of  Amsterdam,  \\  here  the  young  man  created  so  much  sensation  by  his  industr. ,  and 
repeated  so  frequently  the  portraits  of  himself  in  all  possible  costumes,  the  fact-  of  his  having 
rather  reddish  hair  might  have  led  to  that  name? 

As  we  have  said,  the  name  of  our  painter  soon  became  well  known,  and  his  pictures  excited 
the  attention  of  connoisseurs  and  dealers,  rising  rapidly  in  price;  the  young  man  himself  became 
enamoured  of  Saskia  van  Vilenburg,  a  beautiftd  girl  from  Leeuwarden,  maiTied  her,  and  soon 
became  citizen  and  owner  of  a  house,  in  the  "Venice  of  the  Dutch  States."  This  house  was 


78  THK  (JALLERIES  OF  MKNNA. 

small,  containing  three  stories,  with  a  twu-windowed  cabinet  looking  out  from  the  gable  end 
of  the  roof;  and  may  be  .seen  to  this  day  not  far  from  the  Miiseiini.  This  turret-looking 
building  was  formerly  a  town-gate,  named  after  St.  Anthony.  The  arch,  which  in  its  pri- 
inieval  state  had  been  used  as  a  thoroiiglifare,  was  turned  into  a  room  for  the  exhibition  of 
the  painter's  pictures.  His  pupils  worked  in  the  first  story,  with  four  latticed  windows, 
large  and  in  leaden  frames,  between  small  pillars,  still  to  be  seen ;  the  master,  however,  is 
said  to  have  worked  in  the  before  mentioned  cabinet  at  the  toji  of  the  house. 

The  ease  with  which  Rembrandt  painted  was  almost  wonderiul:  he  grappled  with  every 
department  of  his  art,  and  forced  his  way,  quite  unconcerned  whether  he  could  do  justice  or 
not  to  the  subjects  he  had  chosen,  according  to  his  singular  perceptions.  His  enemies  and 
those  who  were  jealous  of  him  cried  him  down  and  called  him  an  idiot— they  could  not  but 
admit  that  he  was  an  inspired  one.  The  learned  critics  were  u[)  in  arms  against  his  historical 
pieces,  and  the  capriciousness  which  he  exercised  in  the  treatment  of  them,  but  were  willing 
to  confess  that,  after  all,  the  paintei-  was  endowed  with  the  gift  of  teaching  from  his  canvas 
what  was  not  to  be  fmnid  in  books  the  spectator  could  understand  and  feel  what  the  artist 
intended.  Renil)ran(lt  n'eafe<l  for  himself  a  kingdom  in  art:  and,  whatever  may  be  urged  for 
or  against  him,  liouevcr  opinions  may  vary,  he  must  be  acknowledged  as  the  supreme  ruler: 
if  is  the  kingdom  of  rhl.ar<.  o.iniiv,  in  which  the  meanest  figures  are  rendered  of  importance 
and  arc  turned  to  ctt'crt. 

Rembrandt  insiihitcd  ilie  stream  of  light,  and  shews  his  power  in  subduing  it  at  plea- 
.sure;  he  secures  his  high  liglit,  cuts  it  ott^  diminislies — plays  with  it  as  his  fancy  directs  — he 
takes  figm-es  as  every  day  represents  them,  without  troubling  himself  about  their  ordinary 
appearance,  without  any  intention  of  impro\ing  or  ennobling  them;  he  cares  nothing  for  their 
forms,  they  are  placed  as  necessary  substances— the  recipients  of  his  varied  eflf'ects  of  light. 
If  he  has  no  feeling  fbi-  plastic  beauty,  lie  as  little  possesses  the  property  of  forming  what 
he  sees  into  dull  ])rose-all  that  comes  muler  his  hand  is  transformed  into  poetry  and 
romance. 

The  vulgar  figures  of  Keinl)raudt  are  at  rlie  same  time  remarkable  for  their  truth  and 
intensity  of  expression:  the  features,  the  wrinkles,  all  are  depicted,  to  the  very  minutiae,  in 
the  heads  of  his  old  men  and  women,  which  stand  out  in  bold  relief,  through  the  medium 
of  his  warm  tints  and  half-shadows.  He  found  the  greatest  delight  in  portraying  these  extra- 
vagant appearances  of  nature's  work,  and  never  failed  to  endow  them  with  a  certain  degree 
of  intellectuality,  which  ig  ol)serveable  in  all  his  works. 

In  Rembrandt's  best  pictm-es  there  is  always  a  sentiment  of  romance,  a  mysticism,  pro- 
duced by  the  effect  of  his  lights,  but  perhaps  still  more  in  the  copious  richness  of  his  shadows,  If 
we  view  one  of  hie  pictures  from  a  distance,  we  observe  large  masses  of  light  and  shadow  which 
seem  gradually  to  melt  into  each  othci'.  If  we  ajiproach  nearer  and  follow  the  light  from  the  point 
of  its  greatest  brilliancy  to  the  deepest,  but  always  transparent,  shadow,  we  recognise  the  extra- 
ordinary richness  of  tlie  apparently  moving  tints  which  the  painter,  as  if  by  magic,  places 
between  us  and  his  subject— a  magical  interweaving  of  lights,  shadows,  and  colours,  which, 
although  placed  in  the  greatest  contrast,  so  beautifully  amalgamate.  The  eye,  once  fas- 
cinated, becomes  rivited  to  the  picture;  the  colours  emerge,  harmonise  with  other  colours,  and 
vanish,  to  make  room  for  sudden  opposite  effects:  they  sojourn  again,  after  we  have  followed 
up  the  details,  with  the  principal  point  of  effect,  setting  everything  else   in  the   picture  in 


REMBKANOI'S  MOTHKK   AKTKR  KKMBKANDT.  79 

suhordination.  In  Remlirandt's  pictiiref*  we  inut-t  not  attempt  to  separate  the  drawing  from 
the  oolom-inj;-,  as  we' may  with  the  works  of  most  other  masters;  we  cannot  only  say  that 
drawing  and  colouring  grew  in  an  equal  ratio  with  him,  but,  thai  the  forms  of  his  objects, 
as  in  nature,  appear  to  die  off,  or  are  interrupted  or  disturbed  by  the  effect  of  light.  In  his 
etchings  on  copper,  lie  attended  less  to  the  beauty  of  the  drawing  than  to  the  eflfects  of  Hght 
and  shade,  in  imitation  of  his  picture.  This  was  his  primary  object  in  all  his  etchings:  and 
he  succeeiled;  though  at  the  sacrifice  of  all  beauty  of  line,  foi-  his  deep  shadows  were  crossed, 
square  and  lozenge,  then  recrossed — no  matter  how-    he  ]>rii(kicetl  the  effect  he  desired.     . 

Coidd  we  bring  together  the  very  numerous  pii-tuics,  and  the  deluge  of  etchings  from 
them,  by  the  hand  of  Remiirandt,  taking  them  tioiii  the  so-called,  historical  pieces  down  to 
the  simple  half-length  portraits,  we  should  invariably  find  them  imbued  with  the  peculiar 
mood  of  the  master.  His  biblical  pieces  present  as  little  of  the  ej)ic  element  as  those  of 
the  "alchymist  in  his  laboratory  surjirised  by  some  magical  appearance  of  light",  or  his  repre- 
sentations of  Jews  l)argnining.  beggars,  and  other  strange  looking  rabble.  Kembrandt,  in  his 
pictures,  never  conveys  the  idea  of  the  action  which  he  exhibits,  biu  simply  the  subjective 
sentiment  which  occupies  his  mind:  he  leaves  all  the  rest — as  a  mere  secondary  con- 
side'/ation-  to  chance:  the  tenor  of  the  scene  represented  interests  him  very  little,  he  gives 
full  sway  to  his  fanciful  conceptions,  and  the  apparition  appears  on  his  canvas!  His  extra- 
ordinary power  lies,  chiefly,  in  the  distribution  of  light  and  shade,  and  their  ajipropriate  co- 
loiu-s.  According  to  this,  there  is  no  stronger  antagonistic  ]jrinciple  than  between  the  real 
subjective  Rembrandt,  the  genuine  lyric,  and  the  historical  school  of  the  Netherlands  imder 
Ridiens.  who  j)ursued  the  system  of  exclusive  personality — the  beauty  of  form — the  plastic 
element — a  dramatic  substance  of  expression  in  his  creations,  till  he  reached  the  highest  goal. 
For  the  sake*of  comparison,  we  may  designate  the  lyric  protestant,  and  the  epic  catholic— the 
former  renders  the  subject  matter  subservient  to  lii>  pleasure  or  cajirice.  the  latter  hn«s  to  it 
with  strirr  ol)servance. 

During  the  years  Ib4(l — 1(550  Heml)randt"s  reputation  had  reached  the  highest  pin- 
nacle: his  tame  was  spread  throughout  Europe,  and  he  prospered  alike  in  his  art  and  in  his 
finauccf.  At  the  commencement  of  this  period  hi'  produced  the  pictiu-e  entitled  "Rembrandt's 
Mother."  an  old  woman  with  Iblded  hands,  and  countenance  depicted  with  the  greatest  truth 
and  vigour.  A  splendid  phalanx  of  talented  scholars  suiTOunded  the  esteemed  master: 
Gerard  Dow.  Van  der  Kckhoiu.  van  Hoogstraaten.  (rovaert  Flink,  Leonard  Branier,  Fer- 
dinand l>ol,  and  several  others,  painted  in  his  house. 

Ill  tlic  year  16.56  a  series  of  adverse  circumstances  befel  Rembrandt,  the  iirst  of  which 
was  the  sale  of  this  house  near  St.  Anthony's  Gate— now  the  district  inhabited  bj-  the  Jews 
in  the  city  of  Amsterdam.  The  facts  of  the  case  were,  that  the  magistrates  had  a  mortgage 
upon  his  house  and  ;idjoining  garden  to  the  amount  of  4,180  gidden,  which  sum  they  im- 
peratively called  in;  and,  as  our  painter  was  not  able  to  meet  their  demand,  he  had  no  alter- 
native— the  propert}-  was  sold  by  public  auction  bj-  warrant  of  the  magistrates.  His  friend 
the  Burgi'niMster  Six  used  all  his  interest  to  prevent  the  sale,  but  his  exertions  proved  un- 
availing. Rembrandt  now  painted  with  redoubled  zeal,  grew  morose  and  parsimonious,  and  de- 
manded exorbitant  [irices  for  his  pictures.  He  seems  likewise  to  have  traded  with  the 
works  of  his  brother  artists,  tor,  alter  his  decease,  nmnerous  pictures  were  discovered  at  his 


go  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

residence,  the  sale  of  which  produced  the  greater  part  of  the  6,952  gulden,  the '  residue  of 
the  property  he  left  behind  him. 

A  picture  of  Rembrandt's,  of  first  rate  merit,  "Two  Monks  at  their  Studies,"  the  liglit 
coming  from  a  curtain  in  the  back-ground,  hangs  in  the  Gallery  ol'  Prince  Esterhazy.  A 
most  charming  picture  of  "Uiana  appearing  to  a  Huntsman"  is  in  the  Lichtenstein  Gallery. 

His  great  master-piece  is  considered  to  be  the  "Night-guard" — a  company  of  citizens 
marching  out  at  night,  which  is  in  possession  of  the  authorities  of  Amsterdam.  His  etchings 
ul'  "Christ,  healing  the  Sick,"  "Portrait  of  the  Burgomaster  Six,"  "Landscape  with  three  Trees," 
"The  Hay  Waggon,"  &c.  are  well  known. 

Rembrandt,  the  brilhant  star  in  the  world  of  art,  whose  ideas  were  inexhaustible,  ranks 
with  the  most  celebrated  painters  of  all  ages,  and  has  never  been  equalled  in  his  chiaro  oscuro. 


THE  HERDSMAN, 


KARL  EUTHARD. 

To  meet  with  a  picture  of  Ruthard's  that  is  not  full  of  violent  action,  and  where  re- 
pose is  the  striking  feature,  is  something  rare.  Those  who  are  acquainted  with  "liim  only  as 
a  painter  of  stag-hunts,  stags  fighting,  mountain  goats  run  down  by  lynxes,  and  bear-hunts, 
will  view  with  some  degree  of  wonder  Ruthard's  picture  of  "The  Herdsman."  In  the  ac- 
cessories here  introduced  we  are  strongly  reminded  of  the  pictures  by  Dujardin,  the  Boths, 
and  Peter  van  Laar,  while  the  landscape  resembles  Wouwerman  in  his  earlier  days. 

lr>  the  centre  of  the  picture  a  herdsman  leans  over  the  back  of  his  somewhat  over- 
driven ass.  and,  free  from  care,  indulge.-^  in  a  quiet  doze.  The  position  of  these  two  figures, 
on  a  Uttle  e'evated  bit  of  ground,  raises  tJiem  above  the  horizon,  so  that  they  stand  out  dis- 
tinctly and  firmly  from  the  sky.  In  the  immediate  foreground  lie  sheep  quietly  chewing 
fhe  cud.  One  of  them  has  risen  and  seems  disposed  to  enquire  of  the  dog,  v\hose  head  only 
is  seen,  what  he  means  by  intruding  upon  their  repose.  Near  the  middle  of  the  picture,  to 
the  left,  is  a  cottage,  in  front  of  which  figures  are  seen  enjoying  the  dance. 

This  ]iicture  is  more  carefully  finished  than  the  works  of  this -master  generally  appear. 
The  colouring  is  nnellow  though  rather  monotone;  the  haze  in  the  middle  and  back-ground 
charming. 


1 

1 


I 


x^ 


TUEiaSH    FISHING    BOATS,    AFTER    PROFESSOK    GEIGEK.  81 


TUEKISII  FISHING  BOATS, 


AFTER 

PROFESSOR  GEIGER. 


A  roughly  built  but  strong  boat  sails  heavily  on  the  slightly  agitated  waves  of  the 
sea.  The  barren  land,  which  rises  but  little  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  is  perceptible  in  the 
extreme  distance.  A  number  of  adventurous  figures  occupy  the  boat.  The  half  naked 
"  PJilegyas"  of  the  little  bark  with  great  nonchalance  manages  the  single  sail,  while  his  sharp 
black  eye  is  directed  to  the  wind,  and  he  is  considering  whether  the  boat  is  capable  of  car- 
rying the  full  ^veight  of  canvas.  An  African,  who  seems  to  be  quite  in  his  element,  is  in 
animated  conversation  with  the  figure  in  a  turban,  next  to  whom  sits  one  with  a  vail 
hanging  from  his  head,  and  otherwise  in  Turkish  costume,  who  appears  to  be  a  passenger. 
On  the  fore-castle  stands  a  man,  with  all  the  look  and  manner  of  a  person  accustomed  to 
authority,  leaning  on  the  line  attached  to  the  bowsprit  and  the  mast— this  is  the  cajJtain,  and 
the  best  figure  in  the  picture.  At  his  side  is  a  boy,  nearly  nude,  who  is  playing  with  an 
immense  crab,  and  making  it  go  through  all  kinds  of  evolutions  in  the  air  for  his  own 
amusement. 

This  picture  exhibits  such  freedom  in  the  grouping  of  the  figures  that  we  cannot  re- 
frain from  paying  our  meed  of  praise  to  the  very  talented  artist.  Professor  Geiger.  The 
painter  has  furnished  us  with  every  necessary  detail  to  shew  us  that  these  Dardaners  really 
live  upon  the  sea;  it  is  their  proper  home.  The  lantern,  hanging  from  the  mast,  shews  that 
these  weather-beaten  people  fioat  on  the  deeji  as  well  by  night  as  by  day,  that  they  never 
touch  at  the  land  until  they  have  drained  the  sea  of  a  trifle  of  its  living  inhabitants  fit  for 
the  food  of  man.  This  picture  is  boldly  executed,  brilliant,  full  of  harniony,  and  appears 
very  attractive. 


THE    CRYPT 

AFTER 

JOSEPH  PLATZER. 


The  name  of  Platzer  stands  high  in  the  history  of  art  in  Austria.  Tlie  family  ap- 
pears to  be  indigenous  to  the  Tyrol.  Here,  at  the  commencement  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
Lukaa  Platzer,  a  brother  in  the  Franciscan  Monastery  at  Botzen,  made  his  appearance  as  a 
very  clever  painter,  who,  in  the  cross-passages  of  his  cloister,  painted  the  life  of  St.  Frai^cis  of 
Assisi  in  a  series  of  pictures  which  were,  for  a  long  time,  erroneously  attributed  to  Ulricli 
Glantschnig  or  Landschneck.    One,  Christojih  Platzer  of  jNIals,  who  flourished  in  tlie  earlier 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  11 


82  '      THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

part  of  the  eighteenth  centiuy,  wended  his  way  from  Inspruck  to  Passau,  and  was 
made  painter  to  the  archbishop.  He  executed  numerous  pictures  of  saints,  and  frotii  sacred 
history,  for  the  churches  and  monasteries.  Johann  Victor  Platzer  was  probal)ly  a  younger 
cousin  of  this  painter,  Hkewise  a  native  of  Mais,  and  a  scholar  of  the  talented  historical  painter 
Kessler,  in  Inspruck,  who  was  a  carver  and  sculptor.  After  having  been  instructed  by  his 
cousin  he  devoted  himself  almost  exclusively  to  painting,  and  produced  beautiful  miniatures 
which,  at  a  good  price,  found  purchasers.  The  Tyrolean  Museum  at  Inspruck  contains  two 
cabinet  pictures  of  Platzer's,  painted  at  a  later  period,  when  the  artist  suffered  from  attacks 
of  the  gout  and  dimness  of  sight.  Johann  Victor  resided  a  long  time  in  Vienna,  and  did  not 
return  to  his  birth-place  till  about  the  year  1755.  About  the  same  time  appeared  Ignaz  Platzer, 
a  distinguished  sculptor,  suppossd  to  have  been  born  inPilsen,  in  1717.  This  very  productive 
artist  embellished  churches  and  palaces  in  Prague  with  statues,  and  other  sculptures.  The  im- 
perial castle  in  Prague,  the  Piccolomini  palace,  and  the  residence  of  the  archbishop,  the 
ladies'  charitable  institution,  near  the  palace,  and  'the  Golz  house',  possess  exquisite  works  by 
Ignaz  Platzer.  The  large  statue  of  St.  Nicholas,  the  four  evangelists  and  other  saints  in 
the  Jesuit  church,  St.  Johannes  Nepomuk  on  the  metropolitan  church,  St.  Robert  on  the 
bridge  in  Prague,  the  large  columns  on  the  chief  set  of  stej^s  of  the  'Czernin  palace'  on  the 
Hradschin,  all  the  statues  in  the  Strahower  church,  are  by  the  hand  of  Ignaz  Platzer. 
Called  to  Vienna  by  Maria  Theresia,  he  executed  four  colossal  statues  for  Schccnbrunn  in 
accordance  with  the  taste  of  the  time.  Platzer's  works  shew  the  power  of  the  artist  in  their 
correctness  and  characteristics,  a  bold  folding  of  the  drapery,  but  the  nude  parts  are  by  no 
means  i'aultless.    Some  of  his  heads  vie  with  those  of  Sc]ia?nhofer  of  Nuremberg. 

Joseph  Platzer,  the  son  of  this  sculptor,  was  born  in  Prague  in  1752.  Joseph 
received  a  learned  prefiguration,  and  then  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  architectural 
j)ainting.  From  simple  drawing  he  soon  took  to  oil  painting,  and  produced,  in  his  own  way, 
such  .superior  pictures,  that  the  attention  of  the  then  all-powerful  Prince  Kaunitz  was  attracted  to 
the  rising  talent  of  Platzer,  and  opened  to  him  great  expectations;  but  they  were  all  nullified 
by  the  death  of  the  princess.  As  a  scene  painter  none  were  to  be  compared  with  him.  In 
compliance  with  the  wish  of  the  Emperor,  Joseph  undertook  this  department  in  the  Imperial 
"Burg"  theatre  at  Vienna,  but,  owing  to  the  constant  disagreements  with  the  managers,  he  took 
a  dislike  to  his  situation,  and  devoted  his  time  wholly  to  painting  in  oil  architectural  pieces, 
which  gained  for  him  a  great  reputation.  He  was  dubbed  painter  in  ordinary  to  the  Prince 
Leopold,  in  which  capacity  he  died  in  Vienna,  in  the  year  1810.  A  great  versatilitj'  of 
talent  reigns  through  all  the  architectural  pictures  from  Platzer's  easel;  he  is  capable  of  ac- 
complishing the  most  difficult  architectural  proportions,  construes  with  ease  and  solidity, 
is  master  of  the  different  styles  of  architecture,  and  understands  the  fundamental  prin- 
ciples of  effect.  The  tone  in  his  pictures  is  always  well  balanced.  His  lights  are  brilliant, 
his  middle  tints  mellow,  and  his  shadows  bold,  broad,  and  at  the  same  time  transparent.  His 
best  pictm-es  are  equal  to  Hendryk  Steenwyk's;  in  fact,  they  surpass  those  of  that  archi- 
tectural painter  in  point  of  mellowness  of  colour.  Platzer  could  also  paint  figures ;  this  was 
not  the  case  with  Steenwyk.  INIany  of  Joseph  Platzer's  works  are  known  from  the  en- 
gravings of  them. 


\f 


THE  TREASURE  SEEKER,  AFTER  LEONARD  BRAMER.  .  83 

THE  TREASURE  SEEKER, 


AFTER 

LEONARD  BRAMER. 


In  the  splendid  row  of  artists  the  overpowering  figures  may  be  discerned  at  the  first 
glance;  principally  the  great  inventers  and  colourists,  who  take  the  lead  through  a  whole  period, 
and  stamp  it  with  the  impression  of  their  genius.  There  is  always  one  in  every  school,  good 
or  bad,  who  has  a  head  longer  than  the  rest. 

Besides  the  trreat  masters  there  exists  another  race  from  whom  it  is  difficult  to  steer  clear. 
These  are  the  masters  possessed  of  third  or  fourth  rate  talent,  whom  nature  in  angry  mood  has 
blessed  with  an  uncommon  power  of  productiveness.  At  all  periods  of  art  these  appear  to 
have  thrust  themselves  forward:  they  either  introduced  a  vitiated  taste,  or  they  can-ied  it  out 
to  the  greatest  extent  at  those  periods  when  art  was  on  the  decline.  Pictures,  however  indif- 
ferently painted  or  objectionable  in  themselves,  when  they  once  become  partially  known,  to  a 
great  extent  seem  to  retain  their  footing,  or,  at  all  events,  purchasers  may  be  found  for  them. 
Bad  old  pictures  find  their  way  from  one  collection  to  anothci-,  and  perhaps  are  hung  next 
to  a  veritable  master-piece — another  name  is  added  to  the  catalogue.  Connoisseurs, — perhajis 
less  than  the  set  of  officious  scribblers  on  art, — embroil  themselves  in  twaddling  disj)utes,  and 
take  infinite  trouble  to  prove  and  to  point  out  certain  singular  beauties  in  these  worthless 
vidgar  productions.  The  indiflTerent  painter  who  excels  in  any  common  department  of  his 
profession  is  sure  to  enjoy  a  certain  reputation;  his  works,  as  long  as  the  colour  and  the 
canvas  hold  together,  will  for  centuries  maintain  a  certain  value,  tiiough  looked  ujion  as  cu- 
riosities only.  Very  diiferent  is  it  with  a  literary  production  of  similar  merit.  A  book  that 
is  not  in  some  way  or  other  famed,  or  downright  notorious,  becomes  rejected,  and  quickly 
disappears. 

But  few  works  of  the  great  painters  have  been  handed  down  to  posterity.  We  will 
take  the  pictures  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  as  an  instance.  It  has  long  been  the  fashion  to 
doubt  the  genuineness  of  all  pictures  under  which  his  glorious  name  appears.  Over  the  works 
of  this  great  master  seems  to  hang  an  evil  star,  as  also  over  those  of  other  so-called  "rare 
masters."  They  were  often  very  productive,  but  still  their  pictures  are  sought  in  vain.  The 
works  of  such  painters  are  often  passed  off  under  another  name,  but  more  frequently  iliey 
have  been  destroyed.  These  masters  could  not  reach  that  pinnacle  of  renown  so  ra[)idl\ 
as  to  attract  the  notice  of  their  contemporaries. 

A  fact  occurs  to  us  that  we  think  woi'thy  of  mention  here.  The  pictures  of  those 
painters  which  have  been  copied  by  the  engraver,  or  etched  by  the  masters  themselves  in 
order  to  make  them  more  generally  known,  are  least  of  all  likely  to  meet  the  bitter  fate  to 
which  they  would  otherwise  be  exposed.  The  engraved  plate  may  be  lost,  but  there  are  im- 
pressions of  it  extant  which  serve  to  prove  the  authenticity  and  genuineness  of  the  original 
picture  from  one  generation  to  another.  Artists  are  usually  very  tenacious  touching  their 
privilege  of  copy-right,  against  which  no  objection  can  reasonably  be  urged.  We  may, 
however,  venture  to  obseiwe  that  their  pictures  being  multiplied — we  use  this  term  for  want 
of  a  better — by  the  hand  of  a  skilful  engraver,  must  necessarily  tend  to  render  their   pro- 


84  THE   GALLERIES    OF  VIENNA. 

ductions  more  generally  known,  and  consequently  keep  their  names  and  their  works  before 
the  eye  and  in  the  minds  of  all  who  make  any  pretension  to  a  love  of  art.  There  are  many 
talented  painters  of  the  present  day — who  knows  all  their  works?  They  are  not  engraved, 
and  these  original  pictures,  in  the  most  favourable  case,  are  bought  to  adorn  some  private 
gallery  probably ;  tliey  are  shut  up  from  the  eye  of  the  people,  and,  in  the  course  of  years,  are 
no  more  recollected;  are  as  if  they  never  existed.  We  are  well  aware  that,  on  this  point,  a 
striking  difference  of  principles  may  be  advanced;  we  adhere,  however,  to  the  point  from 
wliich  we  started,  and  maintain  that  good  copies  of  a  good  work  spread  abroad  amongst 
tlie  people,  serve  to  enhance  the  celebrity  of  the  painter  without  deteriorating  the  value  of 
his  picture.    The  advantages  between  the  artist  and  the  people  are  equally  balanced. 

Leonard  Bramer,  born  in  Delft,  in  the  year  1596,  ranks  amongst  the  good  "rare 
masters."  He  was  one  of  the  best  of  Rembrandt's  scholars.  This  circumstance  alone  ought 
to  have  protected  his  works  from  destruction.  The  number  which  exist  in  our  times  is  but 
small;  a  fact  we  lament,  while  viewing  and  admitting  the  great  beauties  which  the  pictures 
of  this  master  present. 

Bramer's  pictures  display  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  Rembrandt,  although  they  never 
appear  forced.  Powerful  as  this  painter  is  in  his  effects  of  light,  he  does  not  introduce  them 
in  the  despotic  manner  exercised  by  his  master,  who  seemed  to  respect  no  other  law  than 
his  own  will.  The  scholar  submitted  to  natural  appearances;  the  master  obeyed  the  dictates 
of  his  own  ungovernable  fantasy.  Bramer  is  at  all  times  judicious;  he  never  indulges  in 
extravagant  chiaroscuro,  is  more  correct  and  true  to  nature  than  Rembrandt,  but  never 
reached  that   great  magician  in  the  wonderful  effects  which  he  produced  by  his  lights. 

Bramer  depended  greatly  upon  drawing,  Rembrandt  little  or  not  at  all.  In  the  por- 
traits of  the  latter  the  chief  thing  is  the  conception  and  the  development  of  the  effects  of 
light  and  shade.  Bramer's  first  idea  was  the  likeness;  it  reigned  absolute  with  him.  His 
figures  and  heads  are  beautifully  drawn,  free,  and  delicately  finished,  evincing  at  the  same 
time  a  qualified  power  in  the  disposition  of  light  and  vast  attention  to  colour.  Whatever  he 
painted  was  confined  within  the  bounds  of  natural  appearance,  and  worked  out  with  a  fidelity 
which  almost  amounted  to  illusion. 

As  this  master  did  not  in  his  effects  follow  the  vagaries  of  imagination,  it  has  been 
assumed  that  he  was  not  attended  by  these,  and  that  he  found  it  expedient  to  copy  nature. 
He  represented  subterranean  caverns,  cellars,  and  the  vaulted  caves  of  mediaeval  dungeons 
illumed  by  the  light  of  a  lamp  or  burning  torches.  The  figures  introduced  are  characteristic 
with  the  scene.  They  have  a  more  romantic  nature  in  them  than  the  figures  of  Gott- 
fried Schalken's  nocturnal  pieces,  and  play  a  more  important  part  in  the  scene.  Bramer's 
figures,  in  whatever  position  they  may  be  placed,  are  always  active  and  prominent,  and  the 
light  wliich  he  introduces  serves  especially  to  render  them  more  conspicuous,  and  to  add  to 
their  value  in  the  composition.  Schalken  von  Dordrecht  gives  but  little  weight  to  his  figures; 
they  appear  as  models  over  which  the  lights  are  distributed. 

In  his  pictm-e  of  "The  Treasure  Seeker"  Bramer  shews  his  feeling  for  the  romantic. 
At  the  foot  of  a  dilapidated  castle  a  very  suspicious  looking  man  has  removed  the  earth 
with  his  shovel,  and  extracted  broken  pots  and  golden  vessels  from  the  place  where  probably 
they  have  lain  concealed  for  many  a  long  year.  The  treasure  finder  has  the  face  of  a 
criminal.  In  the  background  the  first  hues  of  morning  appear  behind  the  mountain.   Something 


THE  RELEASE  OP  ST.  PETER,  AFTER  HENDRYK  STEENWYK.  85 

moving  is  heard  in  the  distant  landscape.  Startled,  the  treasure  seeker  half  rises,  watches 
with  vigilant  eye,  wliilc  his  features  betray  a  resolution,  in  case  he  should  be  disturbed,  to 
defend  himself  and  his  treasures,  which  have  cost  him  many  a  sleepless  night,  with  the 
shovel  which  he  holds  in  his  grasp. 

A  series  of  sketches  to  illustrate  the  story  of  Eulenspiegel  are  given  with  such  broad 
touches  of  humour,  that  we  scarcely  recognize  in  them  the  hand  of  this  otherwise  so  grave 
painter.    These  sketches  were  made  in  the  year  1656. 


THE  RELEASE  OF  ST.  PETER, 


HEHBEYK  STEENWYK. 


Spring  had  spread  its  ethereal  mildness  over  the  charming  landscape  on  the  banks  of 
the  Ouse.  The  winding  curves  of  the  plains  took  a  direction  towards  a  chain  of  hUls,  on 
the  slojies  of  which  the  tall  forest  trees  had  just  begun  to  shed  forth  their  fi'esh  green  leaves. 
The  meadows  in  the  valleys  had  not  yet  put  off  their  gray  winter  dress,  but  the  fields  of 
young  wheat  were  to  be  seen  in  all  directions,  shining  like  emeralds  reflected  upon  by  the 
genial  rays  of  the  sun,  which  appeared  and  disappeared  at  intervals,  lighting  up  the  land- 
scape, and  darting  his  beams  into  the  swiftly  flowing  river. 

A  double  row  of  old  elm  trees  wound  through  the  fields  and  meadow  lands  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  shading  the  king's  highway  from  London  to  Leicester.  No  life,  how- 
ever, was  to  be  seen  on  that  highway.  The  heavily  laden  waggons,  drawn  listlessly  by  the 
drowsy  team  of  six  and  sometimes  eight  horses,  the  droves  of  fat  cattle,  the  stages  filled  with 
passengers, — formerly  seen  on  the  road  from  morning  till  night, — seemed  to  have  alto- 
gether vanished  from  the  scene. 

Civil  war  had  swept  them  all  away.  General  Fairfax  was  on  the  march  with  his 
Puritan  troops  through  this  part  of  the  country,  continually  having  skirmishes  with  and 
driving  the  royal  armies  before  him.  Deep  ruts  in  the  road  shewed  that  many  a  cannon  and 
heavy  ammunition  waggon  had  lately  passed  that  way.  Here  and  there  might  be  seen  a 
splintered  branch,  hanging  by  its  fibres  from  the  stem  of  a  tree,  which  served  to  prove  that 
cannon  balls  had  been  whizzing;  through  the  air.  On  the  branches  of  trees  which  formed 
bridges  over  the  low  lands  might  be  seen  terrible  gashes,  and,  where  the  road  led  between 
two  hills,  the  hewn  elms,  which  were  thrown  crossways  over  the  road,  indicated  that  j\Iajor 
Lindsay,  of  the  royalist  party,  had  done  every  thing  he  could  to  arrest  the  progress 
of  the  Puritans  that  were  in  pursuit  of  them.  Many  a  fami  house  and  cottage  bordering  the 
highway  had  been  reduced  to  ashes,  part  of  the  walls  remaining  sufficiently  to  shew  that 
they  wei'e  once  inhabited  by  peaceful  and  contented  beings.  The  Gothic  spire  of  the  ca- 
thedral reared  its  head  above  the  little  old  town  of  Newport,  whose  houses  were  half  protected 
by  woody  hills. 


86  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

A  horseman  rode  at  his  ease  alonsr  the  desolate  road,  from  time  to  time  reiiiins:  in 
his  powerful  steed  in  order  to  take  a  view  of  the  surrounding  country.  The  traveller  was  a 
tall,  strongly  built  man  of  about  thirty-three  years  of  age;  his  costume  evidently  foreign. 
His  stern  countenance,  with  full,  meaning  eyes,  but  hard  cast  of  features,  together  with  pro- 
fuse beard,  which  also  decked  his  upper  lip,  gave  him  a  warrior-like  appearance.  His  light, 
almost  straight  hair,  hung  nearly  half-way  down  his  back.  In  his  holster  were  a  brace  of 
horse-pistols ;  fastened  on  his  right  side  was  a  heavy  carbine,  and  a  ponderous  Netherlandish 
broadsword  was  suspended  from  the  pommel  of  his  saddle. 

The  horseman  seemed  to  take  great  interest  in  the  charms  of  the  surrounding 
landscape. 

"What  splendour!"  ejaculated  he  in  a  full  toned  bass  voice,  as  he  arrived  at  the  bank 
of  the  river,  and  held  in  his  horse  to  take  a  more  careful  view  of  the  country.  "What  force 
and  decision  lie  in  the  apparently  accidental  lines  of  this  landscape;  this  perspective  not  the 
best  geometricinn  on  earth  could  give  with  rule  and  compass.  These  hills  and  the  undulating 
lines  of  the  forest, — seem  they  not  as  if  ordered  by  some  whimsical  accident?  Do  not  the 
lines  vanish  in  the  horizon  as  if  by  accident,  each  independent  of  the  other.  And  in  this 
perspective  chaos  a  hint  only  of  distance  is  perceptible  here  and  there;  the  banks  of  the 
river  seem  to  be  touched  into  the  picture  in  almost  concealed  parts,  and  these  simple  hints 
suffice  to  bring  through  each  other  the  most  perfect  order  and  arrangement  of  perspective. 
But  who  can  achieve  so  great  an  end  with  such  simple  means!  Who  knows  where  it  begins 
or  ends,  where  perspective  according  to  rules  begins.  Our  knowledge  and  powers  are 
patch-work  when  compared  to  the  artistical  works  of  the  Almighty,  who  paints  with  the 
sun's  rays,  and  whose  canvas  is  spread  over  the  universe — The  works  of  man's  hand  only  can  be 

understood  by  man. But  that  old  cathedral!  Does  it  not  look  like  the  king  of  all  surrounding 

objects?     That  spire  raising  its  heads  above  the  woods!   Still  there  its  moi'e  to  create  our 
wonder  in  the  construction  of  the  smallest  of  those  trees  than  in  all  the  buildings  in  the  world !" 

The  reflections  of  the  stranger  were,  however,  here  suddenly  and  unpleasantly  inter- 
rupted. He  had  arrived  at  one  of  the  bridges  of  the  river,  the  passage  over  which  \\as 
blocked  up  by  numerous  felled  trees.  Beneath  the  trunks  of  the  elms  was  stretched  the 
almost  naked  figure  of  a  young  man,  whom  it  was  not  difficult  to  recognize  as  one  of  the 
cavaliers  of  the  king's  party.  His  noble  countenance  betrayed  a  contempt  for  death;  his  dark 
eye,  now  no  longer  sparkling,  was  fixed  and  raised  to  heaven.  Among  the  branches,  the 
leaves  of  ^vhich  were  fast  withering,  hung  another  corpse.  This  j)roved  to  be  the  body  of  a 
poorly  dressed  Roundhead,  who  had  been  mortally  struck  by  a  bullet,  while,  with  dagger 
firmly  grasped  in  his  hand,  he  was  endeavouring  to  force  his  way  through  the  green 
barricade. 

Tiie  horseman  cast  a  superficial  glance  at  these  signs  of  a  sanguinary  affray,  and 
directed  his  attention  to  the  ojiposite  bank  of  the  river. 

There  he  espyed,  rattling  along  the  road,  a  carriage,  drawn  by  a  pair  of  stout  York- 
shire horses,  approaching  the  impassable  bridge.  At  the  side  of  the  driver  an  elegantly 
dressed  figure  was  riding  a  proud  prancing  gray  palfrey,  and,  at  a  short  distance  behind  the 
carnage  were  five  other  figures  of  horsemen,  who  put  their  steeds  to  their  utmost,  so  as  to 
gain  the  immediate  proximity  of  the  equipage. 

The  cavalier  on  this  side  of  tlie  river  endeavoured  to  get  a  sight  of  the  pursuers  of 


THE    UELEASE    OF    ST.    PETEK,    AFTER    HENDRYK    STEENWYK.  87 

the  evident  fugitive.  No  doubt  these  -were  Puritan  soldiers,  who  were  following  the  inmate 
of  the  carriage  and  the  armed  escort  tliat  accompanied  it.  Like  a  man  who — not  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life — had  been  exposed  to  threatening  danger,  the  philosopliic  admirer  of  per- 
spective regulations  prepared  himself  to  meet  and  to  defend  himself  against  any  probable 
hostilities.  He  drew  his  carbine,  which  was  fastened  to  the  saddle,  proved  the  flints  of  the 
lock,  and  poured  fresh  powder  into  the  pan.  He  then  removed  the  leathern  covering  of  his 
holster,  and,  after  satisfying  himself  that  his  pistols  were  in  order,  made  his  sword  fast  to 
his  girdle,  so  as  to  have  it  at  hand  should  necessity  call  it  forth.  With  resolute  mien  he 
then  beheld  what  was  passing  on  the  other  side  of  the  river. 

The  equipage  had  reached  the  bridge.  The  coachman,  on  discovering  that  it  was 
blocked  up  on  the  other  side,  drew  up  his  horses  and  turned  round  with  a  look  of  terror  to 
the  riders,  who,  uttering  oaths  and  shouts  of  laughter,  were  quickly  at  the  side  of  the  carriage. 

The  cavalier  on  the  gray  palfrey  raised  his  feathered  hat  and  bowed  reverentially  at 
the  door  of  the  equipage,  which  contained  a  delicate  figure  of  a  lady  habited  in  a  black 
court  dress.  Her  countenance  was  noble  but  pale,  with  large  dark  eyes  and  long  though 
thin  hair. 

As  the  admirer  of  perspective  was  little  more  than  a  pistol  shot  from  the  party  on 
the  other  side,  he  could  not  only  plainly  see  what  was  going  on,  but  could  likewise  hear 
every  word  which  was  spoken  by  the  courtier. 

"Charming  lady,"  he  began,  "I  cannot  help  expressing  my  deepest  regret  that  you 
should,  purely  through  your  own  caprice,  have  prepared  for  yourself  so  anxious  a  moment. 
Fortune  has — as  no  doubt  you  are  fully  aware — been  always  favourable  to  the  enamoured 
one,  and  you  would  have  done  well  to  have  relinquished  all  attempt  at  flight  for  the  pur- 
pose of  rejecting  my  devotion.  At  the  same  time  accept  my  thanks  for  your  graceful 
haughtiness  and  scorn,  for  you  have  given  me  an  opportunity  of  proving  that  I  set  all  hin- 
drance at  defiance,  when  I  am  determined  to  cast  my  adoration  at  your  feet." 

The  leathern  curtain  of  the  carriage  was  now  drawn  back,  and  the  steps  let  down. 
The  courtier  sprang  instantly  from  his  horse,  and,  hat  in  hand,  approached  the  stejjs  of  the 
carriage. 

A  young  lady  alighted,  and,  with  a  commanding  wave  of  the  hand,  refused  the 
assistance  of  the  cavalier.  She  evidently  belonged  to  the  highest  rank;  her  blooming  coun- 
tenance was  remarkably  delicate,  and  her  neck  rivalled  in  whiteness  the  lace  collar  which 
concealed  her  shoulders  and  bosom.  Her  deportment  showed  that  she  was  accustomed  to 
command  obedience.  A  noble  courage  flashed  in  her  dark  eyes,  and  she  feai'lessly  advanced 
towai'ds  the  cavalier. 

"Sir!"  she  said  with  a  clear,  firm  voice,  "I  expect,  with  certainty,  that  this  undignified 
farce  which  you  have  presumed  to  play  towards  me  shall  this  moment  cease." 

"My  Lady!  You  commit  an  offence  against  your  magic  charms  in  declaring  that 
they  can  call  up  nothing  but  a  mere  comedy.  I  am  guided  by  the  true  feeling  of  love,  a 
solemn,  earnest " 

"Cease  to  insult  me,  Sir '' 

"I  swear,  that  I  adore  you,  my  Lady!" 

"It  is  an  outrage  for  an  English  woman.  Sir,  to  be  obliged  to  listen  to  such  a  de- 
claration from  a  man  who  has  no  respect  for  his  own  honour!"  returned  the  lady  with  great 


88  THE  GALLEEIES  OF  VIENNA. 

emotion.     "From  your  language  I  take  you  to  be  a  foreigner — You  have  a  double 

duty — to  behave  honourably  towards  a  British  lady,  and  not  to  abuse  that  hospitality^  which 
you  may  consider  your  riglit,  by  a  contemptible  course  of  proceeding,  which  an  English 
soldier  of  the  lowest  rank, — leaving  the  gentleman  out  of  the  question, — would  be  incapable 
of  committing." 

"Your  spirit,  Madam,  is  commensurate  with  your  rare  beauty.  You  not  only  under- 
stand how  to  conquer,  but  to  subjugate  the  vanquished Are  mortals  to  be  con- 
demned for  worshiping  the  Olympian  goddesses?  Is  it  dishonovu-able  to  offer  a  lady  the 
services  of  a  cavalier,  to  place  my  sword  and  dagger  at  her  command,  where  danger 
threatens  her  at  every  step  she  takes  in  a  part  of  the  country  so  unsafe  as  this  is?"' 

"English  manners  are  a  more  certain  protection  to  me  than  any  that  }'0u  and  ycuu- 
followers  are  able  to  afford.  Were  Englislunen  on  the  spot,  no  matter  whether  Puritans  or 
Cavaliers,  you  would  soon  experience  how  impertinence,  in  the  form  of  uninvited  service,  is 
rewarded  in  this  country." 

"Very  well,"  said  the  courtier,  jjiqued,  "to  please  you  we  will  say  no  more  on  the 
subject;  but  I  presume  you  will  not  prevent  my  rendering  myself  a  service.  That  will  be 
permitted — or  I  greatly  mistake — both  by  the  manners  of  England  and  the  right  of  custom 
in  the  great  kingdom  of  conniion  sense;  of  which,  at  all  events,  this  kingdom  lays  claim  to 
make  a  province." 

"  The  greatest  service  you  could  render  yourself  would  be  to  protect  your  honour 
from  the  stain  of  behaving  towards  a  lady  like  a  barbarian,"  replied  the  fair  one. 

"I  perfectly  understand  everything  relating  to  my  honour,  my  Lady,  of  which  I  assure 
you  I  am  very  tenacious,  and  I  declare  it  to  be  wholly  irrevelant  to  my  honour  whether  I 
pursue  the  highway  in  a  northern  or  southern  direction,  whether  I  ride  across  the  fields  or 

amuse  myself  in  yonder  meadow  with  the  prancing  and  leaping  of  my  noble  horse 

That  I  happen  to  have  fallen  upon  the  idea  of  riding  whichever  course  your  carriage  may 
take,  does  not  in  the  least  compromise  my  honour,  and  certainly  does  not  affect  yours " 

The  lady  turned  from  the  cavalier  and  directed  her  steps  towards  the  bridge.  The 
cavalier,  however,  let  go  his  horse,  and,  overtaking  the  lady — who  had  begun  to  run — before 
she  reached  the  bridge,  he  without  further  ceremony  seized  her  bv  the  arm  and  held 
her  fast. 

The  lady  uttered  a  shrill  cry. 

JJp  to  this  moment  our  "perspective"  friend  liad  remained  a  still  observer  of  all  that 
had  passed ;  but  novv  he  raised  his  voice. 

"Courage,  lady!  if  a  foreigner  is  not  destitute  of  all  modesty,  and  abuses  the  rights 
of  hospitality  on  British  ground,  he  comes  the  nearest  to  a  sworn  enemy  to  all  strangers  who 
value  their  honour." 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  preparatory  speech,  the  student  of  perspective  put 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  fearlessly  forced  him  into  the  river.  The  noble  animal  swam  with 
his  master  on  his  back,  and  soon  reached  the  opposite  bank  of  the  Ouse. 

The  followers  of  the  cavalier  drew  their  daggers,  while  he  himself  let  go  the  lady  and 
hastily  attempted  to  spring  into  his  saddle. 

Perspective —for  so  we  must  call  him  for  the  present — reined  up  his  horse  and  cocked 
his  carbine. 


THE    KELKASK    OF    ST.    PETEK,    AKTEK    llENDKYlv    STEENW  VK.  89 

•'Do  not  shoot,  or  you  are  a  dead  man!"'  cried  the  cavalier,  turning  pule. 

The  reply  was  the  report  of  Perspective's  carbine.  The  gray  horse  sprang  in  the  air 
and,  after  a  few  wild  movements,  fell  close  to  the  bridge.  The  ball  from  the  carbine  had 
tihot  the  animal  through  the  head. 

\Vithout  troubling  himself  a  I  unit  the  cavalier,  who  was  now  hors  de  combat,  Per- 
spective drew  his  rapier,  and,  j)utting  his  horse  in  galloji,  he  fell  foul  of  the  followers  of  the 
courtier.  With  all  his  daring  activity,  well  directed  and  hard  cuts,  he  could  not  effect  his 
object,  for  the  cowardly  lackeys  turned  tail,  and  rode  with  all  possible  speed  till  they  reached 
the  town  of  Newport. 

"Now,  my  fine  cavalier,''  said  Perspective,  alighting  quickly  from  his  horse  and  ap- 
proaching the  person  he  addressed — who  lay  motionless  with  one  leg  under  his  fallen  steed — 
"now  we  will  have  a  word  together!    .Surrender  or  by — I'll  run  you  through!" 

He  held  the  point  of  his  rapier  at  the  throat  of  the  cavalier. 

"You  are  half  a  countryman  of  mine,  a  Frenchman — I  am  unarmed — would  you 
murder  me?    Spare  me!" 

"You  did  not  spare  the  lady,  although  she  was  unarmed!"  returned  Pei'spective.  "I 
am  the  devil's  Frenchman,  not  one  of  your  sort.  I  am  of  good  Flemish  blood.  Will  you 
surrender  or  not?" 

The  eyes  of  Perspective  seemed  to  emit  such  threatening  sparks,  that  the  cavalier 
expected  the*  next  moment  to  receive  a  deadly  thrust  from  the  impending  rapier  of  his 
antagonist. 

"Mercy!"  cried  the  lady,  hastening  to  the  spot. 

"He  shall  promise  on  his  word  of  honour  in  future,  wherever  he  may  meet  you^ 
not  to  shew  you  the  least  attention,  excepting  you  yourself  give  him  special  permission!" 
shouted  Perspective,  keeping  back  the  lady. 

"W^ell,"  muttered   the   cavalier,    "I  herewith   give    the  promise  demanded,   although 

by  so  doing  I  stamp  myself  a  barbarian And  no^v,  brave  Paladin,  before  all  things 

let  me  crave  your  assistance;  pray,  rescue  my  half  crushed  leg  from  beneath  the  heavy  weight 
of  my  horse." 

The  Fleming  at  once  sheathed  his  rapier*  and  rendered  the  required  help.  When  the 
cavalier  had  regained  his  legs  he  turned  with  a.  sorry  smile  to  the  lady. 

"Madam !  As  I  cannot  suppose  that,  as  this  knight  is  present,  you  entertain  any  fear 
of  this  unfortunate  figure,  pray,  allow  me  to  a]jproach  you  in  order  that  I  may  be  assured 
of  your  pardon.  That  word  which  you  exclaimed,  when  I  was  within  a  hair  of  my  life, 
proves  more  than  a  long  speech  to  convince  me  how  wrong  I  was  to  cause  so  noble  minded 
a  lady  one  momenf  of  anxiety.  I  intreat  your  pardon  and  would  wish  to  part  from  you 
as  your  friend.  You  need  not  blush,  my  Lady,  to  give  me  this  title,  for  should  I  be  so  for- 
tunate to  meet  you  once  again,  under  circumstances  more  worthy  of  your  and  likewise  my 
situation  than  the  present,  you  Tvill  then  receive  a  proof  that  tfce  friendly  bearing  to  me 
of  even  the  finest  lady  of  the  three  kingdoms  can  only  redound  to  her  honoiu:.'' 

The  deportmeDt  of  the  cavalier  and  his  very  expressive  tir,  together  with  his  fine 
countenance,  exhibited  such  noble  self-consciousness  that  the  lady  was  struck  vnth  per- 
plexity and  began  to  reflect  whether  she  had  ever  met  her  knightly  pursuer  before. 

"Your  style  of  language  is  haughty,  Sir,"  replied  the  lady  in  a  firm  tone.    "The 

Galleries  of  Vieona.  12 


90  THE  fJALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

number  of  cavaliers,  who  can  with  right  maintain  what  you  have  just  expressed,  is  but  few 
in  England;  and  I  should  not  have  believed  that  a  cavalier  who  possesses  such  a  "right 
could  remain  unknown  to  me.    Who  are  you?" 

Before  the  cavalier  had  time  to  answer  the  question  Perspective  uttered  an  ex- 
clamation of  disagreeable  surprise. 

On  the  high  road  fi-om  Newport  a  troop  of  horsemen  was  ap|)roachiiii;  with  great 
rapidity.  They  were  preceded  by  the  cavalier's  lackeys,  who  g;illopc(l  with  all  their  niiiiht 
and,  in  order  to  revenge  their  defeat,  had  already  drawn  tii'eir  swords  from  their  fCidll);u•ll^. 
These  lackeys  were  followed  by  numerous  horsemen  furnished  with  coats  of  mail. 

"Those  ai'e  Lindesay's  cuirassiers!"  cried  the  cavalier.  "I  shall  without  loss  of  time 
avail  myself  of  an  excellent  opj)ortunity,  and  convince  you,  my  Lady,  of  the  sini'erity  of  my 
professions." 

The  lady  .~eemed  now  as  uneasy  as  she  had  hitherto  shewn  herself  courageous. 

The  troop  drew  up,  and  the  leader,  a  very  yoimg  officer,  sprang  from  his  horse,  and 
after  slightly  saluting  the  lady,  cast  an  inquiring  look  at  her.  He  went  through  the  same 
ceremony  with  the  cavalier  and  Perspective,  when,  looking  the  two  last  full  in  the  face, 
he  said, 

"(ienflemen,  which  of  you  two  is  the  painter  Anton  van  Dyck?" 

"I  am,  Sir!"  answered  the  cavalier,  who  turned  and  bowe<l  to  the  lady.  Perspective 
became  deadly  pale. 

"Van  Dyck!"'  muttered  he  to  himseli'. 

"Sir!"  said  the  officer  with  a  strong  foreign  accent,  "I  consider  myself  ibrtnnate  tiiat 
accident,  the  Tjeiis  I'lv  machina  of  a  soldier's  life,  has  procured  me  the  honour  of  jiroving  my 
high  regard  for  the  illustrious  friend  of  my  brother.  Although  1  am  by  no  means  so  clever 
a  draughtsman  and  etcher  as  my  brother,  be  assured  that  1  esteem  you  no  ios  tiian  he  does." 

"Permit  me  a  question:  to  whom  am  I  to  pay  deference?"  said  van  Dyck. 

"I  am  Prince  Moritz  of  tjie  Palatinate.  Pray,  keej)  on  your  hat,  Master  van  Dyck; 
we  will  dispense  with  all  compliments — give  me  your  hanfl.  I  can  assure  you,  I  will  do  all 
1  can  to  become  a.^  intimate  with  you  as  my  i)rother  Kupreclit!" 

And  the  prince  shook  van  Dyck  heartily  by  the  hand. 

"But  now,  we  must  to  business,"  continued  the  jirince,  knitting  his  brows.  "You 
know  this  lady,  I've  no  doubt.'" 

"Your  Highness,"  replied  the  Lady  with  a  glowing  countcnaucu,  "were  1  less  vain 
tlian  1  really  am,  I  should  attribute  your  forgetfulness  to  the  camj)aign  life,  whose  laurels 
to  this  day,  as  in  classic  anti(|\iity,  seem  to  possess  the  property  of  destroying  the  re- 
collection of " 

"My  Lady,"  interrupted  the  prince,  "you  are  given  to  understand  that  1  must  also 
know  you 1  assure  you  that  1  have  never  seen  you  even  for  a  few  moments,  lijr  per- 
sonality— to  express  myself  alter  military  fashion — like  your's  would  ever  be  retained  in  my 
memory,  in  spite  of  the  Lethe  drauglit  itself" 

"The  name  of  the  Earl  of  Montrose  will  suffice  to  prove  that  my  personality  is  lor  all 
that  less  striking  than  your  Highness  declares  it  to  be,"  re{ilicd  the  lady  with  a  fascinating 
smile. 


THK     RELKASE    OK    ST.     PETEK.    AKTEK     llENDKYK     STEE.WVVK.  91 

"My  Lady,  1  know  the  Coiiiitess  of  Montrosp,  her  three  sisters,  the    ladies  Gore  iind 

Gwynne,  and  Miss  Eleanor,  and  all  the  other  memliers  of  the  family. But  I  do  not  know 

you-   — 1  am  here  on  service,  and  must  act  in  accordance  with  dnt}' You  will  therefore 

pardon  me  when  I  desire  you  to  oliserve  silence  until  I  call  upon  you  to  speak."' 

"His  Majesty  the  Kint;  will  not  be  pleased  to  learn  tliat  your  Hifrlmcss  does  not 
understan<l  how  to  imite  duty  with  consideration  towards  the  "sister",  of  the  Earl  of  Mont- 
rose,'" said  the  lady  coldly. 

Will  you  he  silent?'"  thundered  the  prince.     Is  there  a  Scotchinan  amongst  the  men?" 

"Here,  Colonel,  Archibald  Larse "'  cried  one  of  tiie  cuirassiers. 

"Does  this  lady  speak  like  a  Scotchwoman?" 

The  soldier  raised  his  eyelids  .and  gave  a  searching  look  at  the  ladv. 

"Prince!  from  her  speech  one  does  not  hear  the  Scotchwoman,  if  one  does  not 
know  before  hand  that  the  lady  is  a'  Montrose.'' 

Somewhat  dissatisfied  with  the  answer.  Prince  Moritz  turned  to  van  Dyck. 

"Master,  tell  me,  on  your  honour,  who  is  this  lady?" 

"I  have  no  right,  your  Highness,  to  enter  into  any  explanation,"  answered  the  painter, 
shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"But  your  duty,  Sir!    Your  lackeys  said  that  you  had  never  seen  the  lady  before " 

"My  servants  are  rascals,  and  they  shall  not  escape  the  punishment  they  deserve.  Lady 
Helen  Montrose,  I  have,  unhappily,  too  long  loved— " 

"Can  you  honestly  maintain  this  declaration  under  all  circumstances?" 

Van  Dyck  fancied  that  the  lady  looked  at  him  from  the  corner  of  her  eye. 

"Undoubtedly But  what  means  this  inquisitorial  proceeding.  Prince?"- 

"This  proceeding  is  ended,"  declared  Moritz,  "and  is  no  doubt  pardoned  by  the  Lady 
Helen  Montrose,  hard  as  it  may  appear  to  her.    Pardon  me.  Madam!  You,  as  sister  of  one  of 

our    bravest   generals,    unquestionably    a  true    Royalist,    will   not   find  that   difficult 

We  are  in  pursuit  of  Lady  Fairfax,  the  charming,  bold,  ambitious  daughter  of  Lord  Vane, 
who,  according  to  information  derived  from  a  most  reliable  source,  had  tried  to  find  her  way 
through  the  royal  army,  for  the  purpose  of  repairing  to  her  husband,  at  the  head  quarters  of 

the  rebel  troops Blame  your  beauty,  my   Lady,   which   even   exceeds   that   of  Lady 

Fairfax,  that  for  a  moment  you  could  be  suspected  of  b^ing  a  traitress  to  the  cause  of  our 
chivali'io  monarch." 

"When  Prince  Moritz  mentioned  the  name  of  General  Sir  John  Fairfax  van  Dyck 
fixed  his  eye  with  astonishment  on  the  beautiful  lady  before  him.  A  haughty,  flashing  look, 
which  made  him  tremble  for  the  safety  of  Lady  Montrose,  met  his. 

"You  purpose  continuing  your  journey  to  London.  Madam?"  enquired  Prince  Moritz 
with  knightly  gallantry. 

"As  your  Highness  is  so  exceedingly  gracious  as  not  to  seize  me  as  your  prisoner,  it 
is  my  intention  to  travel  on  to  London,  then  to  repair  to  her  Majesty  the  Queen,  who  is  at 
Exeter,  should  nothing  intervene,"  said  the  lady  wnth  bewitching  wawvM. 

"But  you  seem  to  have  forgotten  these  Roundhead  bandits,  who  follow  up  the  royal 
troops;  Cromwell's  cavalry,  who  like  highway-men  form  marauding  parties  on  every,  road 
jiot  occupied  by  our  troops!'" 

"Prince   these  Rotmdheads  can  under  circumstances  displav  n  great  deal  of  gallantry." 


92  THE  GALLKKIES  OF   VIENNA. 

observed  the  lady  earnestly.  I  know  from  experience  that  they  hold  it  beneath  their 
dignity  to  declare  war  against  a  lady." 

A  deep  red  spread  over  the  countenance  of  Moritz. 

"Truly,  Madam,  when  I  molested  you  it  was  by  ronunand  of  the  greatest  noble  of  the 
three  kingdoms,  in  the  name  of  King  C'harles  himself. " 

"So  much  the  worse " 

"You  see.  Madam,  that  I  am  willing  to  do  everything  in  my  power  to  make  you 
forget  mv  in(iuisit(>rial  character " 

"Let  the  next  proof  be  the  removal  of  that  barricade  of  trees  on  the  other  <  nd 
of  the   bridge.  Sir." 

"Your  coimnand  shall  be  instantly  olx'ved,''  said  the  Prince.  "As  I  cannot  long  re- 
main here  I  will  place  some  six  of  my  cuirassiers  at  your  service.  Even  they  will  not  lie 
able  to  remo\e  those  immense  trees  to  the  side,  but  their  broad-swords  will  htive  sufKcicnt 
influence  over  the  jieojile  in  the  ncighbourhooil  and  induce  or  force  th(;m  to  supply  the  ne- 
cessary number  of  labourers. Place  yonrselt',  till  this  be  <'ffected,  under  the  guardian- 
ship of  the  knight — pointing  to  Perspective  —who  volunteered  his  services  and  acted  in 
your  liehalf.  Rut  if  you  do  not  consider  voiirself  secure  under  his  jirotection,  allow  mc  to 
advise  you  to  return  under  my  escort  to  New])ort,  and  to  wait  there  till  the  work  sliall  be 
accomplished." 

"Your  Highness,  I  will  remain  here  altlioui;li  no  knight  has  offered  me  his  services, 
as  you  represent  it.  The  brave  cavalier,  who  so  enei'gctically  interfered  for  me,  was  actuated 
by  no  other  duties  than  those  which  emanated  from  his  own  generosity  and  sense  of  justice" 

"But  you  know  that  gentleman?"  said  the  Prince,  pointing  to  Perspective  with  a 
sudden  appearance  of  mistrust. 

"I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  when  I  came  to  this  place,  but  I  can  vouch  lor  his  high 
sense  of  honour.'" 

"My  Lady,  1  shall  be  ]ierfectly  satisfied  if,  in  addition  to  this,  he  will  give  tis  a  short 
account  of  his  name,  of  his  rank,  and  of  the  business  which  led  him  to  undertake  the 
journey  here." 

Perspective  shook  his  head  mournfully  and  looked  at  van  Dyck. 

"The  object  for  which  I  left  Frankfort  on  the  Maine,  my  second  home,  and  came  to 
England,  has  been  defeated,  owing  to  ray  having  ]iresented  myself  before  Master  van  Dyck 
with  rapier  and  carbine  in  hand " 

"What  nican  yon?  "  enquired  van  Dyck,  astonished. 

"  I  came  from  Germany,  Master,  to  find  you.  My  greatest  desire,  for  years,  has  been 
to  meet  with  j'ou  face  to  face,  to  prove  the  high  respect  I  enterttiin  for  you,  and  to  strain 
every  effort  to  gain  your  favour,  and  under  you  to  learn  the  art  of  imparting  to  my  per- 
spective your  light  and  shade " 

"What,  you  are  a  painter?"  exclaimed  van  Dyck. 

"I  hoped  as  your  scholar  to  become  a  painter  in  my  department  of  the  art,  but,  as  I 
have  unhappily  introduced  myself  .as  an  enemy  to  you,  all  my  hopes  are  frustrated." 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"1  biidrvk  Steenwyk " 


THK    KELKASK    OV    ST.    PETliK,     AFTER    HENDRYK    STEENWYK.  93 

"The  son  of  the  Amsterdam  architectural  painter,  Hendryk  Steenwyk?"  enquired 
van  Dyck,  with  an  appearance  of  enhghtennient. 

"Yes,  Master  van  Dyck.  If  yim  know  my  father's  pictures  it  is  just  as  good  as  if 
you  had  seen  mine.    I  understand  fundamentally  architectural  perspective — but  to  tlii.s  day 

I  cannot  paint  it 1  have  l)een  six  weeks  on  the  way  trying  to  find  you  out;  but  wh(  a 

I  arrived  where  I  expected  to  meet  with  you,  you  were  set  out  on  a  march  with  the  adherents 
of  King  Charles,  and  were  consequently  not  to  be  found.  To-day,  however,  I  have  found 
you  without  seeking " 

"And  conducted  yourself  so  bravely,"  continued  van  Dyck,  seizing  the  hand  of 
Steenwyk,  "tiiat  I  shall  not  feel  inclined  to  part  with  you  for  some  time  to  come." 

"Master,  your  generosity  is  not  less  incomparable  than  your  art You  will  really 

accept  me  as  your  scholar?" 

"How  can  I  refuse?"  said  van  Dyck  with  a  laugh.  "Am  I  not  your  prisoner?  I  must 
conform  to  the  will  of  my  conqueror!" 

Steenwyk  nervously  twiddled  his  long  mustachios. 

"To  prove  to  you  that  I  am  in  earnest,"  continued  van  Dyck,  "make  your  arrangements 
to  follow  me — Lady  Montrose  I  know  would  rather  dispense  with  my  company.  We  shall 
certainly  for  a  time  follow  head  quarters,  but  you  will  soon  find  that  in  encampment  one 
can  brandish  the  brush  just  as  well  as  the  sword.  If  you  are  satisfied  with  my  offer  give 
me  your  hand — done!" 

The  perspective  painter  shook  heartily  tlie  delicate  hand  of  Master  Anton. 

Van  Dyck  and  the  Prince  took  leave  of  the  lady,  and  six  cuirassiers  besides  a  sergeant 
were  left  behind,  to  attend  upon  her  and  to  procure  assistance  from  the  neighbouring  farmers, 
in  order  to  remove  the  barricade  so  frccjuently  alluded  to.  Van  Dyck  and  his  followers 
joined  the  Prince  Moritz  and  his  troops  of  horse,  who  proceeded  to  the  town  of  Ncwport- 
Pagnel  where  Van  Dyck  purposed  taking  up  his  quarters  for  tlie  night. 

Steenwyk  was  oliliged  to  ride  close  at  van  Dyck's  left, — who  liad  mounted  the  horse  of 
one  of  his  servants, — and  could  scarcely  answer  the  questions  put  in  such  rapid  succession  by 
the  great  master.  Van  Dyck  knew  most  of  the  pictures  and  also  the  etchings  of  Steenwyk 
the  elder,  and  pronounced  him,  as  far  as  the  great  imjiortance  of  niatliematical  constnrrtion 
was  concerned,  quite  equal  to  Paolo  Uccello,  the  scholar  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  the  first  master 
of  perspective,  to  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  to  Albrecht  Duerer.  At  the  same  time  he  declared 
that  the  architectural  pictures  of  the  elder  Steenwyk,  in  allusion  to  the  figm-es,  were  bad, 
and  that  the  aerial  perspective  had  no  opacity. 

"If  the  pictures  of  the  father  do  not  please  you,  what  will  you  say  to  those  of  his 
son?"  sighed  Steenwj'k.  As  to  drawing  an  interior,  however  complicated  it  may  be,  I  have 
liut  to  refer  to  the  rules  of  mathematics  \\hich  I  learnt  in  my  youth,  and  I  find  no  great  dif- 
ficulty— I  have  them  all  in  my  head.  But  neither  my  father  nor  my  other  masters,  neither 
Valdenburg  nor  de  Vries,  iiave  ever  'leen  able  to  teach  me  the  application  of  persitective  in 
flie  representation  of  human  figures.     This  has  been  a  continual  source  of  grievance " 

Van  Dyck  laughed. 

"Your  fundamental  principles  seeiu  to  make  it  impossible  for  you  to  produce  figures, 
my  most  profound  Steenwyk,  and  I  must  say  that  I  envy  you  your  mathematical  science. 
It  is  a  very  difficult  matter  to  deteiinine  the   proportions  of  size  in  figures,  according  to 


94  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

natural  harmony  of  a  body  vvliieh  the  artist  may  consider  fine:  how  much  more  dit'fiouh  i?  it 
through  those  ever  ohanjring  waved  lines,  under  the  management  of  rule  and  compasses,  to 
produce  the  correct  appearance  of  retirement  from  the  foreground.  I  remember  once.  Master 
Rubens" — Van  Dyck  lifted  his  feathered  hat — "tried  to  make  me  comprehend  that  a  skilful 
hand,  according  to  the  chief  object,  could  appear  in  four  and  five  hundred  different  ways; 
that  these  movements,  according  to  their  less  important  combinations,   might   be  raised  to  a 

million  of  different  positions. Here  mathematics  cease  to  suit  the   intenninable  variety 

of  line*  to  the  gi-ound-plan  of  a  picture " 

■'That  is  false,  Master  van  Dvck."  Steenwvk  ventured  to  observe,  "this  seeming  in- 
feriority of  lines  is  no  doubt  governeil  by  the  laws  which  are  valid  for  the  perspective  ap- 
pearance of  all  other  objects,  and  these  laws  are  after  all  very  simple.  The  application  of 
them,  I  am  willing  to  admit,  may  be  sometimes  very  difficult." 

"So  difficult,"  maiutained  van  Uyck,  "that  1  find  a  twinge  of  swimming  in  the  head  when 

I  think  of  applying  it I  rather  de|jend  upon  my  eye  than  on   rule    and   compasses, 

and  endeavour  to  rcjHesent  things  according  to  their  natural  appearance,  without  puzzling 
my  brains  about  the  principle  of  reason  why  they  should  appear  so.  My  perceptions  teach 
me  whether  there  exist  a  diflference  between  the  figures  I  paint  and  the  living  originals,  and 
[  have  invariably  found  this  feeling  conduct  me  there,  where  scientific  analysis  leaves  off, 
simply  because  it  is  not  subtle  enough " 

Steenwyk  seemed  absorbed  in  thought. 

"I  have  a  feeling  for  that  which  I  cannot  produce  by  means  of  rule,"  said  he.  "But 
this  it  is  which  I  cannot  painty-  — My  most  important  perspective  constructions,  notwith- 
standing their  great  varieties  of  form,  remain  heavy,  dry,  and  bare,  when  I  come  to  finish 
them It  seems  to  me  to  be  the  light  which  I  caimot  master " 

"Say:  light,  air,  and  colour. Well,  you  shall  soon  become  actjuainted  with  all 

three,  if  you  are  inclined,  on  your  side,  to  do  me  a  favour " 

"Command  Master,"  said  Steenwyk  with  enthusiasm. 

"Oh,  you  will  have  no  easy  task,  Steenwyk,"  replied  van  Dyck.  "You  shall  shew  me 
in  what  way  architecture  is  to  be  drawn;  but,  inind  you,  you  are  not  to  torment  me  with 
your*  mathematical  rules." 

"If  you  know  the  elements  of  geometry  and  likewise  .something  of  stereometry " 

"Bear  in  mind, that  I  know  nothing  but  the  multiplication  table;  and,  in  fact,  1  cannot 
say  that  I  am  quite  perfect  in  that." 

"I  will  invent  a  new  method  for  you.  Master." 

"Invent  what  you  like,  but  teach  me  architectural  perspective!" 

Thev  had  arrived  at  Newport.  The  prince  prolonged  his  march  with  the  cuirassiers, 
while  van  Dyck  and  Steenwyk  ahghted  at  an  inn,  opposite  the  splendid  old  church,  where 
they  passed  the  night.  On  the  following  morning  van  Dyck  found  that  he  could  not  proceed 
on  his  journey,  owing  to  his  foot,  which  his  horse  had  fallen  upon,  being  very  much 
swollen. 

"Well,  I  will  have  my  easel  fi.xed  up,"  said  van  Dyck  to  his  new  scholar,  and  "you 
shall  paint,  just  to  relieve  me  by  making  me  forget  my  pain.  What  say  you  to  the  church 
opposite?" 

"Before  I  arrived  at  that,    for  me.  fat:il  bridge   over  the  Ouse,  the  peculiar  forms  of 


THE    RELKASe    OF    ST.     PETKK.     AFTER     HENDRYK    STEENWYK.  y5 

that  piece  of  architecture  attracted  my  attention.  However,  if  you  desin;  tliat  I  ih';i«  tlmt 
rhurch.  I  must  premise  that  my  forte  is  only  in  interiors;  for  I  have  had  too  little  practice 
with  the  outpide  of  huildings." 

"Very  well;  then  you  will  paint  the  interior  of  the  church." 

It  Hoon  apj)eared,  however,  that  cerrain  iieciiliar  difficulties  presented  themselves,  whirl  i 
proved  inimioal  to  their  plan.s.  Neither  the  sexton  nor  the  clergyman  would  venture  to  admit 
Steenwyk  into  the  cliurrh  for  so  profane  a  purpose  as  that  of  taking  a  sketch  of  it.  Van 
Dyck.  too  little  accustomed  to  meet  with  opposition  to  his  wishes,  was,  consequently,  in  very 
ill  huniOur. 

He  sent  a  message  to  the  clergyman,  requesting  him  to  call  upon  iiim,  but  re7 
ceived  the  answer  that  that  fun(^tionary  could  not  visit  strangers.  Master  Anton  had  himself 
dressed,  and  hobhled  along,  supported  by  his  servant  and  accoiupanied  by  Steenwyk,  to  the 
residence  of  the  wayward  vicar. 

The  ill  humour  of  the  master  instantl}  subsided  when  a  charming  damsel,  fresh  as 
the  flowers  of  morning,  opened  the  door  of  the  old  fashioned  house,  and  conducted  the 
visitors  to  her  father's  study. 

A  meagre,  pale  looking  man  in  a  shabby  black  dress  rose  from  his  chair  and  ad- 
vanced towards  the  strangers. 

"Here  1  am.  reverend  Sir,''  began  van  Dyck;  "and  upon  my  honour  this  visit  has 
caused  me  confounded  pain. 1  hope  this  result  will  suffice  for  your  incivility!" 

"Noble  Sir!"  replied  the  vicar,  removing  his  cap  from  his  head,  thinly  furnished  with 
gray  hair,  "you  would  do  me  great  injustice  if  you  accused  me  of  such  a  fault,  which  I 
from  my  heart  despise." 

"After  all,  is  your  refusal  to  allow  the  church  to  be  opened  the  most  amiable  ser- 
vice, the  tenderest  consiileration  of  my  wish?" 

"The  service  I  render  you,  Sir,  is  worthy  your  regard,'"  returned  the  clergyman, 
"wlien  I  refuse  any  participation  in  a  purpose  which  might  very  probably  turn  out  a 
great  calamity  to  you." 

"l  do  not  understand  you,  reverend  Sir." 

"From  your  pronunciation.  Sir,  1  take  you  to  be  a  foreigner,"  answered  the  vicar^ 
"nevertheless,  you  nnist  be  well  aware  that  the  Puritans  pursue  with  fire  and  sword  those 
who,  contniry  to  their  notions  of  pure  Christianity,  rebel  against " 

"My  good  Iriend,"  said  van  Dyck  laughing.  "I  give  you  my  word  that  it  will  not  enter 
my  head  to  kick  against  the  new  doctrine  of  the  Roundheads,  were  it  even  twice  as  non- 
sensical as  it  is.  Your  Reverence;  although  I  am  a  good  Catholic,  I  am  mindful  of  that 
which  you  are  pleased  to  call  the  gospel  of  the  Puritans,  and  shall  continue  quite  passive  till 
the  worthy  gentlemen  think  proper  to  risk  an  attempt  at  my  conversion.  In  such  case,  in- 
stead of  theological  arguments,  I  shall  answer  with  the  point  of  my  rapier. You  sec, 

reverend  Sir,  that  in  this  way  I  entertain  hopes  of  seeing  many  years,  unless,  as  it  is  not 
improbable.  1  meet  these  Puritans  on  the  battle-field,  where  in  fact  I  ha%'e  alrendy  several 
times  come  in  contact  with  them." 

The  clergyman  seemed  almost  horrified  when  van  Dyck  declared  himself  a  Catholic, 
but  he  soon  recovered  from  the  shock. 

"Sir!  excuse  my  plain  way  of  speaking.    1  have  to  do  with  facts,  and  you  oppose  them 


96  I'HJi  GAL!  EKIES  (IF   \  IKNNA. 

with  empty  words.  It  may  be  that  you  have  not  iully  understood  me,  I  will  therefore  ex- 
plain myself  more  exj)licitly Vou  wish  to  paint  the  interior  of  the  church  in   which   I 

officiate  as  clergyman " 

"Not  I,  but  this  brave  gentleman,  my  companion;  still  that  does  not  alter  the 
.•ase " 

The  vicar  slightly  bowed,  and  then  continued: 

"I  need  scarcely  assure  you  that  I,  could  I  act  according  with  my  own  feelings, 
should  feel  honoured  by  having  an  opportunity  of  rendering  you  my  services.  '  But  the  hand 
of  power  is  upon  me,' — to  speak  in  the  sense  of  the  Puritans.  They  have  swept  off,  with 
brooms  of  iron,  everjthing  appertaining  to  religion  which  they  believed  to  have  been  per- 
formed by  the  hand  of  man.     The  noblest  creations  of  art  have  been  destroyed  by  the  rough 

hands  of  these  iconoclasts Down  with  the  idols !  was  the  cry  of  the.se  men  of  the 

spirit,  for  so  they   call  themselves.     The  golden  calf  and  Moloch,  Baal  and  the  dragon  of 

Babylon !  thus  they  designated  the  artistical  ornaments  of  our  church. These  Puritans 

have  destroyed  all  the    beautiful    statues    and    pictures,  which    have    for  centuries  adorned 

the  venerable  edifice  dedicated  to  the  worship  of  God   in  oin-  city The  very  ancient 

painted  glass  window,  even,  they  have  ruthlessly  demolished There  is  to  be  a  new 

heaven  and  a  new  earth! My  superior,  the  rector  and  deacon,  tried  to  conceal  a  beauti- 
ful picture  of  the  Magdalen,  painted  by  a  celebrated  artist  of  Italy — this  he  attempted  to 
hide  behind   the   altar,  to   save  it   from   the  general   devastation  and  sacrilegious  outrage, — 

but   his  life  paid     for  his   temerity Judge    for   yourself.   Sir,  whether   the  Puritans 

would  not  suspect  me  of  being  opposed  to  them,  and  punish  me  as  a  disgrace  to  the 
church,  were  1  to  open  her  doors  to  you  for  the  purpose  of  desecrating  her  walls,  as  they, 
according  to  their  feelings  of  religion,  woidd  certainly  term  it." 

"Allow  me  to  observe,"  said  van  Dyck,  when  the  vicar  had  concluded,  "'that  you  ard 
too  scrupulous;  you  exhibit  too  much  anxiety.  I  admit  the  propriety  of  what  you  say,  but 
one  thing  is  certain — the  Roundheads  are  neither  ubiquitous  nor  omniscient.  As  far  as  my 
knowledge  of  affairs  goes,  there  is  not  a  single  man  of  the  parliament's   troops   in  the  whole 

neighbourhood. How  can  they  know  that  you  have,  for  our  purpose,  admitted  us  into 

the  church?" 

"Ah,  Sir,  you  do  not  know  Essex  and  Fairfax,  I  see.  They  are  never  nearer  than 
when  they  are  believed  to  be  far  off;  besides,  do  you  suppose  there  are  no  Puritans  in  Eng- 
land but  those  in  the  ranks  of  the  parliament  army?  All  Newport  is  not  only  inclined  to 
Puritanism,  but  they  devote  their  hearts  and  voices  to  those  frantic  zealots,  those  bigots  to  the 
Old  Testament  dispensation,  who  proceeded  from  the  parliamentary  circle,  and  who,  to  judge  by 
their  dark  energy,  will  soon  bring  the  moderate  party  under  their  feet.  It  would  not  escape 
the  notice  of  the  fanatic  spies  if  1  acted  so  inconsiderately  and  complied  with  your  request." 

"But  surely  we  may  be  allowed  to  view  the  church?" 

"I  will  readily  concede  to  that,  but  under  the  express  condition  that  you  make  no  at- 
tempt, that  you  do  not  copy  anything  you  see  there,  or  even  take  out  your  pencil." 

Th6  clergyman  put  on  his  gown,  sent  iiis  daughter  to  fetch  the  keys  of  the  church, 
and  accompanied  them  thither,  first  taking  them  into  the  sacristy.  After  the  artists  had 
looked  about  them  in  this  small  closet  which  adjoined  the  nave  of  the  sorry  church,  while 
passing  through  the  door  leading  to  it  Steenwyk  could  not  suppress  a  cry  of  admiration. 


•* 


THE    KELEASE    OF    ST.   PETER,    AKTEE    HENPKVK    srEENWYK.  97 

Here  the  massive  forms  of  the  structure  of  the  buihhng  at  once  presented  themselves 
to  tKe  view.  Rounil,  witii  respect  to  their  strength,  very  low  pillars,  supporting  sliallow,  spread, 
webbed  arches,  having  a  tendency'  to  the  pointed  Gothic  style.  On  all  sides  the  artists  per- 
ceived the  cyclopic  forms,  demonstrating  the  beginning  of  the  Englisli-gothic  of  that  time 
when  the  German  clement  of  architecture  endeavoured  to  free  itseli'  from  the  Byzantine 
style.  The  benches  and  chairs  of  the  worshippers  had  been  taken  away;  the  altar  in  the  sid<> 
nave  together  with  the  pulpit  had  Ijeen  demolished.  In  this  'house  of  humility '  there  was 
place  to  kneel  but  on  the  alternate  white  and  black  slabs  which  formed  the  ground— it  pre- 
sented a  cold,  wretched,  threatening  appearance. 

The  inevitable,  ])Owerful  sensation  which  this  plundered,  holy  edifice  created  in  the 
mind  of  van  Dyck  operated  so  strongly  upon  him,  that  lie  could  not  resist  once  more  to  at- 
tack the  clergyman  on  the  original  point. 

"I  would  give  the  most  finished  drawing  of  the  knight's  chapel  in  Windsor  Castle  for 
a  sketch  of  this  church,"  said  van  Dyck,  addressing  Steenwyk.  "What  say  you,  Vicar,  to  re- 
turning to  yom*  sacristy,  closing  the  outward  door,  going  straight  home,  and  remaining  tliere 
till  we  have  done  our  work?   You  do  not  seem  profusely  to  enjoy  the  gifts  of  fortune " 

"I  am  poor,"  muttered  the  clergyman  looking  at  his  habiliments.  "The  income  that 
this  living  produces  is  claimed  by  a  superior;  I  am  but  the  slave  ol'  tlie  rector,  who  rewards  me 
but  poorly  for  undertaking  his  duties. And  how  will  it  be  in  the  future?  The  bish- 
ops still  want  such  learned  labourers  as  I  am;  but  the  Puritans  accuse  us  of  being  antichrists, 
and  1  must  therefore  make  up  my  mind  that  the  zealots,  as  soon  as  they  appear  again  and 
find  time  to  think  of  me,  will  compel  nie  by  oath  to  relinquish  my  calling " 

"You,  then,  of  course,  have  made  yoiu-  arrangements  accordingly,  and  are  prepared 
to  meet  anything  that  may  transjjire;  that  is,  if  your  fears  be  realized  you  will  not  suffer 
from  poverty." 

The  poor  clergyman  cast  an  undescribable  look  at  the  master. 

"Reverend  Sir,"  said  van  Dyck  smiling,"  if  this  be  the  case  1  will  give  you  a  good 
piece  of  advice:  before  it  is  too  late  turn  your  attention  to  picture  dealing.  I  can  assure  you 
that,  notwithstanding  the  hard  times,  a  very  good  living  may  be  made  if  a  man  goes  any- 
thing like  the  right  way  to  work,  and  attends  to  his  business." 

The  vicar  pointed  to  the  bare  walls  of  the  church. 

"You  imagine  that  I  have  concealed  some  of  the  valuable  pictures  which  once  de- 
corated this  place;  that  I  have  hidden  them  from  the  hands  of  the  rabble!  Ah  no!"  said  the 
vicar  shaking  his  head. 

"I  did  not  think  of  the  possibility " 

"How  then  should  I  become  possessed  of  the  pictures  in  which,  according  to  your 
advice,  I  am  to  deal?" 

"The  pictures  we  two — this  gentleman  and  I — will  paint;  and  when  thej'  are  finished 
we  will  purchase  our  own  productions  of  you." 

The  clergyman  looked  confused. 

"I  am  rather  head-strong,  Sir.  I  have  a  fancy  to  call  a  view  of  the  interior  of  this 
church  my  own  projDerty,  and  I  am  determined  on  carrying  out  my  plan.  Such  a  picture 
would  to  me  be  worth  fifty  pounds. —  What  say  you  to  it  now?" 

"Fifty  pounds!"  muttered  the  vicar. 

Qullcrtes  of  Vieiiii:i.  13 


98  THE  GALLERlliS  OF  VIENNA. 

"Shall  I  have  the  picture.  Sir?" 

"1  have  warned  you;  I  can  do  no  more,  and  I  hold  myself  free  of  all  responsibility 
should  any  mischief  arise  from  your  proceedings." 

"On  that  head  you  need  not  be  uneasy." 

"I  cannot  give  you  the  keys  of  the  church,  but  must  leave  it  to  you  to  find  out  a 
means  of  getting  into  the  church." 

"Reverend  Sir,  this  seems  to  me  an  unaccommodating  way  of  dealing  with  your 
customers.      At  all  events  you  mighthave  the  kindness,  for  our  convenience,  to  lose  the  keys." 

"When  shall  I  receive  the  fifty  pounds?" 

"As  soon  as  you  have  lost  the  keys." 

The  vicar  solemnly  wrapped  his  cloak  around  him  and  went  towards  the  sacristy — 
the  heavy  keys  fell  with  a  clanging  sound  on  the  stone  pavement.  Steenwyk  rushed  forward 
and  picked  them  up. 

The  strangers  ueturncd  to  their  hotel  in  order  to  send  the  sum  agreed  upon  to  the 
vicar,  and  to  make  their  arrangements  so  that  the  necessary  utensils  might  be  sent  to  the 
church  the  same  evening,  when  they  heard  the  beating  of  a  drum  and  afterwards  the  town- 
crier  announced  to  the  inhabitants  of  Newport  that  the  keys  of  the  cathedral,  which  had 
been  in  the  possession  of  the  vicar,  had  become  "lost  or  mislaid." 

Notwithstanding  this  piece  of  information,  about  ten  o'clock  that  evening  the  two 
strangers  had  successfully  conveyed  everything  required  into  the  building,  and  all  was 
arranged  that  they  might  set  to  work  early  on  the  following  morning.  Before  the  good 
people  of  Newport  were  stirring,  Steenwyk  had  smuggled  himself  into  the  church,  carefully 
closed  the  inner  door  of  the  sacristy,  and,  seating  himself  in  front  of  the  demolished  altar, 
commenced  operations  with  his  rule,  compasses  and  pencil. 

After  "Perspective"  had  measured  and  constructed  for  some  days,  he  was  able  to 
produce  a  wonderful  water-colour  drawing  before  the  astonished  eyes  of  van  Dyck,  who  was 
obliged  to  keep  his  room. 

Steenwyk  had  i-eally  worked  upon  the  drawing  for  about  two  days,  when  a  strong 
division  of  the  royal  troops  from  Manchester  marched  into  Newport  on  their  way  to  London. 
They  seemed  to  be  awaiting  an  attack  in  this  city,  for  they  erected  fortifications  before  the 
gate,  and  barricaded  all  the  entrances  to  the  city.  The  next  morning,  however,  before  day- 
break, the  Earl  of  Strafford  marched  with  his  army  as  quietly  as  possible  from  Newport. 
Two  hours  later  appeared  the  Puritans. 

With  the  dreadful  cry  of  "the  sword  of  the  Lord  and  of  Gideon!"  they  stomied  the  for- 
tifications, climbed  over  the  barricades,  and  drew  up  in  file  in  the  high  street  of  the  city; 
they  then,  in  quick  march  and  singing  a  psalm  in  chorus,  proceeded  to  the  cathedral,  in 
order,  according  to  their  custom  and  the  example  of  the  Maccabees,  to  purify  the  holy  place. 

Instead  of  the  vicar,  who  deemed  it  advisable  to  hide  himself,  the  sexton  unlocked 
the  chief  door  of  the  church.  The  Puritans  forced  themselves  in,  and  surprised  Master 
Steenwyk,  who  was  earnestly  engaged  at  his  work. 

As  soon  as  these  religious  heroes  discovered  the  profanation  committed  on  the  holy 
place  by  the  sinner  Steenwyk,  they  by  acclamation  passed  sentence  of  death  upon  him. 
With  the  greatest  trouble  some  of  the  officers  succeeded  in  procuring  him  a  hearing  before 
judgment  should  be  carried  into  effect. 


TIIK    UKI.KASE    OF    ST.     I'KTKI!.    AFTER    IIKNDIiVK     STDKNWVIC.  99 

Steenwvic  was  manacleil,  and  the  corpun  delicti,  the  nearly  finisheJ  picture,  hung 
round  his  neck.  The  malefactor  was  then  escorted  hy  the  soldiers  to  the  inn  opposite  the 
cathedral,  where  the  commander  of  the  Puritan  troops  had  taken  up  his  quarters. 

Wiien  conducted  info  the  large  room  of  the  inn,  our  painter  discovered  Master  van 
Dyck,  surrounded  liy  armed  men,  with  his  hands  bound,  and  sitting  on  a  bench.  The  two 
artists  found  it  difficult  to  conceal  their  feelings  from  each  other. 

The  commandant  appeared — a  fine  knightly  figure,  with  sparkling  e3es,  but  a  stern 
expression  of  countenance. 

"Bring  the  prisoners  before  me!" 

''General,"  said  one  of  the  eldest  officers,  pointing  to  van  Dyck,  "this  child  of  Belial 
is  unable  to  walk.     The  soldiers  have  brought  liim  here  on  their  muskets." 

"Is  the  sacrilegist  likewise  lame?" 

Steenwyk  was  roughly  pushed  forward. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Sir!  I  am  a  harmless  painter " 

"God  be  thanked,'"  said  van  Dyck  to  himself.  "It  is  a  cavalier  that  honne  fortune  has 
supplied  us  for  our  judge." 

The  master  rose  from  his  seat  and  gently  touched  his  hat. 

"Monseigneur,"  said  van  Dyck  in  the  French  language,  "I  was  nearly  giving  Avay 
to  certain  fatal  apprehensions;  but  since  I  saw  you  I  am  perfectly  easy  as  to  the  termina- 
tion of  this  farce. 

When  van  Dyck  began  to  speak  French  rough  voices  were  raised  in  all  directions; 
the  "French  hound,"  the  "dead  body,"  the  "lick-si)ittle  of  the  jiapist  Henrietta  Maria  of 
France,"  were  condemned  to  by  no  means  mild  degrees  of  hell  fire. 

An  angry,  commanding  glance  of  the  General  sufficed  to  procure  silence  amongst  the 
zealots. 

"Speak  English,  if  you  please,"  said  the  officer  to  van  Dyck.  "You  are  as  injudicious 
as  you  are  impertinent  in  presuming  my  patriotism  to  be  so  lax,  that  I  could  look  upon  you 
and  your  gang  as  friends.  This  presumption  is  a  downright  insult,  an  offence.  However,  I 
will  soon  find  out  whether  you  are  more  foolish  than  wicked Do  you  know  me?" 

"I  douijt  it,  Sir,"  replied  van  Dyck  with  a  look  of  the  greatest  contempt.     "I   took 

you  for  a  cavalier,  and  consequently  I  had  a  right  to  address  you   as  a  friend After 

what  you  have  uttered  you  need  not  be  afraid  of  my  doing  you  the  insulting  honour  of 
taking  you  for  a  nobleman." 

A  deep  red  came  over  the  face  of  the  officer.  With  violent  emotion,  he,  w  ith  his  left 
hand,  seized  the  hilt  of  liis  sword;  but,  in  the  next  moment,  he  seemed  to  have  subdued  his  rage. 

"A  prisoner,"  said  he  somewhat  inaudibly,  "has  the  privilege  of  a  woman — as  he  is 
unarmed  he  will  at  least  make  a  weapon  of  his  tongue." 

The  general  turned  his  back  upon  van  Dyck  and  addressed  Steenwyk. 

"Who  are  you?" 

"My  name  is  Hendryk  Steenwyk,  and  by  profession  I  am  a  painter."' 

"A  foreigner,  I  hear " 

"I  am  the  son  of  a  Dutch  artist,  and,  although  born  at  Francfort  on  the  Maine,  I  con- 
sider myself  as  belonging  to  the  Netherlands  school " 

13" 


100  ^  THK    (iALLERIES    OF  VIENNA. 

""What  have  I  to  do  with  your  school?" 

"Sir,  this  school  is  the  pride  of  a  people  who  have  always  cherished  a  great  respect 
for  the  English  nation." 

The  general  seemed  to  look  upon  the  painter  with  some  feeling  of  sympathy. 

"Your  face  proves  the   correctness  of  your  statement,  Mas'ter   Steenwyk-         — You 

seem   to   be  an   honest  character How  came  you  to  paint  a   picture    of   a    purified 

church  of  this  country?" 

"Were  I  deserving  of  the  title  of  master,  as  you  were  pleased  to  call  me,  the  whole 
universe  would  be  open  to  me,  and  my  pencil  would  be  actively  employed  in  representing 
some  of  its  beauties.  I  understand  the  so-called  architectural  perspective;  this  I  can  draw, 
and  am  now  learning  to  j)aint  it.  [  know  of  no  country  but  P'ngland  where  such  magnificent 
specimens  of  architecture  are  to  lie  found,  at  least  so  suitable  for  me  in  the  practice  of  my 
art.  This  truth  ought  not  to  act  against  me,  as  it  is  no  disgrace  to  England;  on  the  contrary, 
it  redounds  to  her  honour." 

"You  represent  your  case  well.  Master  Steenwyk,"  answered  the  officer;  "before  I 
can  come  to  any  determination  as  to  your  sentence,  it  will  be  necessary  to  institute  an  enquiry 
as  to  the  circumstances  which  induced  you  to  come  to  Newport,  for  the  purpose  of  painting 
a  temple  so  long   polluted   by  a  wooden  idol,  and  which,  it  is  said,  was   able  to   perform 

wonders AVas  not  your  idea   to   pi-oduce  a  proof  for  Catholic  fanaticism  of  how  the 

Puritans  have  desecrated  the  sanctuary  of  the  'black  Maria  of  Newport?'  You  cross  your- 
self  You  see,  I  have  discovered  the  secret!" 

"As  a  true  Catholic  I  certainly  cannot  countenance  that — I  cannot  reconcile  it  to  my 
feelings  that  it  is  just  to  outrage  the  figure  of  the  holy  mother  of  God  mei'cly  on  account  of 

her  wondrous  deeds At  the  same  time  I  assure  you  that  I  was  not  aware  that  any 

such  object  of  adoration  ever  existed  in  the  church  of  this  place 1  did  not  even  know 

of  the  church  itself  until  I  viewed  it  from  the  bridge  over  the  river  not  far  off— I  do  not 
know  its  name '' 

"Pray,  is  your  presumptuous  companion  similarly  ignorant?" 

"That  does  not  concern  me.  Sir." 

"But  you  can  say  whence  you  both  came,  i'or  this  concerns  you  as  well  as  your 
companion!" 

"  I  came  from  Loudon ! " 

"And  your  friend  too? " 

"1  do  not  know,  Sir." 

"You  will  say  at  last,  you  do  not  know  him " 

"I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  three  days  ago.'' 

"Where?" 

"On  the  bridge  over  the  river  near  this  city." 

"At  the  barricade  of  trees?    Then  you  both  came  from  London?'' 

"In  no  wise But  it  is  a  long  story " 

"A\'liich  you  seem  disinclined  to  relate,"  said  the  oificer  meaning  to  finish  the  sen- 
tence, and,  turning  to  van  Dyck,  he  demanded: 

"Whence  came  you  when  you  met  Master  Steenwyk  on  the  Ouse  bridge?" 

"From  the  head  quarters  of  the  king!"  answered  van  Dyck,  coolly,  but  with  emphasis. 


■  THE    liELEASE   OF   ST.    PETER,    AFTEl!    HENDRYK    STEENWYK.  lUl 

The  general  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprize. 

"You  are  one  of  the  princes  of  the  Palatinate?" 

"No,  but  I  have  no  reason  to  regret  that,  for  I  am  Anton  van  Dyck!" 

"In  truth!"  muttered  the  General.  "I  recognize  you,  for  1  have  somewhere  ?epn  vour 
portrait." 

"And  now,  since  you  known  who  I  am,"  continued  van  Dyclc,  "you  will  no  doubt  do 
me  the  justice  to  pursue  the  examination  in  private,  or,  at  all  events,  in  the  presence  of  no 
one  but  Hendryk  Steenwyk." 

"I  have  no  secrets  before  my  soldiers,"  returned  the  General,  with  a  proud  air.  "You 
will  give  me  a  satisfactory  relation  as  to  the  reason  of  your  coming  here.  If  you  refuse,  or 
fail  in  doing  that,  be  assured  that  I  will  detain  you  in  prison  till  you  think  better  of  it " 

"Your  threat  is  superfluous,"  answered  van  Dyck.  "I  have  left  the  head  quarters  of 
my  royal  friend  for  this  simple  reason:  I  am  going  to  her  majesty  the  queen  at  Exeter." 

"I  must  inform  you,"  said  the  officer  coldly,  "that,  according  to  the  laws  of  this 
country,  you  are  not  bound  to  accuse  yourself." 

"The  truth  is  not  forbidden  to  be  spoken!" 

"Your  brother  artist  spoke  before  about  a  'long  story' Will  you  explain  that?" 

"That  is  very  simple 1  professed  my  admiration  of  a  lady  who  was  travelling; 

she  was  certainly  very  beautiful- 1  admii'ed  her,  I  say,  but   used  no  threats;  when    1 

was  attacked  by  my,  now,  good  friend,  Steenwyk,  who  presented  himself  as  her  protector. 
After  he  had  overcome  me,  or  rather  my  horse,  an  understanding  soon  followed.  A  few 
minutes  later  I  had  the  pleasure  of  rescuing  the  lady  from  being  carried  off  as  a  prisoner  by 
the  cuirassiers  of  Prince  Moritz  of  the  Palatinate. — The  Prince,  who  led  his  men  in  pursuit 
of  a  lady  of  such  great  political  importance,  considering  the  possibility  of  letting  her,  of 
whom  he  was  in  search,  escape,  determined,  contrary  to  his  own  inclination,  to  permit  the 
idol  of  my  soul  to  go  her  own  way." 

The  General  listened  with  great  attention. 

"Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  lady  whom  you,  as  you  declare,  protected?" 

"I  cannot  with  certainty  say  who  she  was,  but  I  am  sure  that  she  told  an  untruth 
when  she  declared  herself  to  be  Helene  Montrose,  the  sister  of  our  bold  Scotch  partisan. 
I  must  understand  little  of  the  language  of  eyes  if  the  anxious  beauty  was  not  the  same 
that  the  prince  was  in  search  of." 

"  Of  whom  do  you  speak?"  enquired  the  General,  with  evident  agitation. 

"Of  Lady  Fairfax,  the  wife  of  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax.  I  shall  appeal  to  him,  your 
General,  against  this  disgraceful  proceeding  towards  two  harmless  painters;  and  I  know 
that  I  shall  not  appeal  in  vain." 

"But  wait.  Sir  Knight  Anton  van  Dyck,"  cried  the  officer,  whose  cheeks  were  crim- 
soned with  anger;  "you  dure  to  appeal  to  the  husband  of  the  lady  to  whom  you  admit 
having  made  dishonourable  propositions!  You  carry  your  impertinence  so  far  as  to  claim  the 
assistance  of  him  whose  honour  you  have  attacked?" 

"It  seems  to  me  that  in  your  rough  hands  that  delicate  affair  will  be  spoiled.  1  shall 
therefore  observe  silence  on  the  subject  till  called  upon  by  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  himself  for 
an  explanation " 

"Here  stands  Thomas  Fairfax  to  hold  a  fearful  judgment  upon  you." 


102  THE  GALERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

Van  Dyck  was  surprized  for  the  moment,  liut  he  soon  recovered  his  self-possession. 

'"The  judgment  will  not  he  more  fearful  than  the  lilade  which  you  wear  at  your  side." 

"How,  Sir?" 

"If  you  feel  hound  to  revenge  an  alleged  insult  from  a  cavalier  to  your  noble  wife,  it  is 
to  he  hoped  that  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  will  use  his  own  sword  instead  of  engaging  the  sickle 
of  his  "Ironsides." 

Sir  Tiiomas  stood  there  in  indescribable  rage. 

"Away  with  tiie  prisoner!"  he  commanded  in  a  har.sh  voice, and  pointed  to  van  Dyck; 

"Ensign  Joyce,  I  make  you  answeral^le  for  him  with  your  life You,  noble  minded  Steen- 

wyk,  are  at  liberty,  l^efore  you  proceed  on  your  journey,  I  pray  you  to  be  so  long  my" 
guest,  till  you  have  furnished  me  with  the  immediate  particulars  of  your  rencontre  with  this 
insolent  person  here." 

"JNIany  thanks  for  your  well  meant  intentions.  General,"  answered  Steenwyk. 
"Allow  me,  however,  to  say,  that  after  the  unpleasant  turn  which  this  affair  with 
Master  van  Dyck  has  taken,  I  do  not  feel  myself  justified  in  uttering  a  word  relative  to 
what  passed  at  the  bridge.  I  would  sacrifice  my  right  hand  rather  than  suffer  a  syllable  to 
escape  my  lips  which  might  be  misinterjireted,  and  jierhaps  be  prcjudical  to  the  character  of 
him  who,  since  the  death  of  Peter  Paul  Eubens,  is  the  prince  oi'  the  Netherlands  school  of 
painting." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Sir  Thomas  with  a  dark  scowl,  "jirepare  to  accompany  your  idol." 

The  two  painters  were  led  away  by  the  soldiers  and  conducted  to  the  chnrch.  In  this 
'cleansed  house'  were  the  chief  watch,  or,  as  the  Puritans  expressed  it,  'the  guard  of  the 
sanctuary.'  Whenever  these  fanatic  troops  marched  into  a  city  their  first  act  was  demo- 
lition. They  forced  their  way  into  the  churches,  destroying  everything  appertaining  to  the 
Catholic  religion  or  that  reminded  them  of  the  bishops,  solemnized  the  holy  sacrament,  and 
began  their  way  of  serving  the  Lord,  which  continued  during  the  day  and  night.  Which- 
ever of  the  soldiers  was  inspired  by  the  Holy  Ghost  ascended  the  pulpit — that  is  if  they  had 
not  already  destroyed  it — and  delivered  himself  of  an  extempore  oration.  The  text  was 
chiefly  from  the  Old  Testament,  rarely  taken  from  the  New,  in  which,however,  the  apocalypse 
was  much  liked. 

The  favourite  heroes  of  the  Puritans  were  Gideon,  Samuel,  Elias,  Joshua,  who  cleanses 
the  sanctuary,  and  Judas  jNIaccabanis.  Abimelech,  Saul,  Ahab,  and  his  wife  Jesebel,  the 
Philistines,  the  priests  of  Baal,  together  with  the  notorious  lady  of  Babylon  in  the  Revela- 
tions of  St.  John,  were  identified  in  the  persons  of  King  Charles  I.,  Queen  Henrietta,  and 
even  the  priests  of  the  Episcopalian  church.  The  singing  of  the  psalms  of  David,  the  fearful 
prophecies  of  a  Isaiah,  and  the  anathemas  on  unbelievers  and  the  hardened  never  for  a 
moment  ceased. 

When  van  Dyck  and  Steenwyk  were  conducted  into  the  church,  the  'guard'  were 
already  engaged  in  zealous  psalmody.  Judging  from  the  devotional  countenances  of  the 
congregation,  who  "trusted  in  God  and  kept  their  powder  dry,"  the  descent  of  the  spirit 
was  every  moment  expected. 

The  entrance  of  the  strangers  caused  some  interruption  to  their  praisegiving.  The 
soldiers  pressed  tumultuously  towards  them,  and  received  the  'papists'  with  a  cry  of  "How 
conies  Saul  amongst  the  prophets?" 


THE    HEI-EASE    OF    ST.    PETEK.    AFTER    IIENDKVK    STEENWVK.  j  0.'! 

Joyce  presently  ;i|ii)ea!-cil  tliein,  surveyed  the  (le\ast;iie(l  eilifire,  and  ordered  tlie  pri- 
soners to  be  locked  ii|)  in  the  sacristy,  before  the  inner  door  of  which  a  guard  was  |)laced. 
The  painters  passed  lialt  the  night  in  painful  anxiety.  Van  Dyck's  courage  forsook  him. 
He  who,  sujijiorted  liy  his  pride,  had  \entured,  regardless  of  conscrpionccs,  to  set  the  leader 
of  the  Puritan  army  at  defiance,  was  almost  distracted,  giving  way  to  his  fancies  and  the 
firm  conviction  that  it  was  the  intention  of  the  Puritans  that  he  should  be  executed.  Steen- 
wyk  altogether  rejected  such  an  idea  on  the  part  of  their  persecutors;  it  is  true,  he  felt  per- 
fectly secure  as  far  as  his  own  person  was  concerned,  and  therefore  it  is  not  to  be  supjiosed 
that  he  could  suffer  from  the  same  feelings  as  a  man  who  every  moment  expects  his  death 
warrant. 

"If  j'ou  are  so  thoroughly  convinced  of  what  you  have  said,  that  they  are  determined 
to  have  your  life,  Master,"  said  Steenwyk  in  a  low  voice,  "it  is  high  time  that  we  set  to  work 
and  save  ourselves.'" 

"There  is  no  help,  no  means  but  flight;  and  that  would  be  im[)ossible,  unless  by  some 
extraordinary  miracle!"'  muttered  Van  Dyck  to  himself. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Master.  We  can  open  the  outer  door  of  the  sacristy  as  soon  as 
we  please,  and  in  my  opinion,  without  running  any  risk  ol  Iteing  detected;  for  the  Round- 
heads seem  to  have  forgotten  to  place  a  sentinel  there." 

"What,  the  door  is  not  locked!  Did  you  not  notice  how  that  ensign  carefully  ex- 
amineil  the  oak  door  and  saw  that  it  was  fast?" 

"That  did  not  escape  my  observation " 

"Do  you  think  then  that  with  your  poignard  you  can  force  that  massive  iron  plate 
and " 

"I  do  not  think  about  it It  can  be  accomplished  in   a  much  more  convenient 

manner,  for  I  have  the  key  which  the  vicar  gave  me  snugly  intrenched  in  my  pocket." 

Van  Dyck  could  not  suppress  an  exclamation  of  joy.  The  sentinel  on  duty  in  the 
church  opened  the  door  of  the  sacristy  and  ordered  the  prisoners,  with  a  rough  voice  and  a 
fair  supply  of  execmtions,  to  be  still! 

"Here  is  the  key,"  whispered  Steenwyk,  as  the  inner  door  was  again  closed  upon 
them  and  safely  locked  and  barred. 

He  produced  the  instrument,  which  was  heavy  enough,  in  case  of  necessity,  to  be 
used  as  a  formidable  weapon  of  defence. 

"Why  did  you  not  mention  this  key  before?  Had  you  done  so — as  you  ought  to 
have  done,  if  you  had  any  feeling — you  would  have  spared  me  a  world  of  anxiety " 

"Do  not  be  angry,  Master!  I  am  cjuite  persuaded  that  .Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  will  not 
venture  to  touch  your  life;  I  think  it  therefore  safer  to  await  with  patience  whatexer  may 
come  than  to  make  our  escape  and  be  marks  for  the  bullets  of  the  carabines  of  our 
pursuers.' 

"Ah!"  muttered  van  Dyck,  "there  is  some  reason  in  what  you  say;  but  I  certainly 
will  not  remain  here,  if  there  be  any  possibility  of  effecting  an  escape;  and  as  we  have  the 
power  let  us  by  all  means  try  it But  what  shall  we  do  when  we  get  out?" 

"We  must  endeavour  to  reach  the  parsonage  and  trust  to  providence  for  the  rest;  and 
without  an  ally  we  shall  not  be  able  to  pass  through  the  city,"  replied  .Steenwyk,  who  plainly 
saw  the  inutility  of  saying  anything  further  to  his  companion  on  this  very  important  point. 


104  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

The  prisoners  listened  to  what  was  going  on  in  the  nave  of  the  church.  The  psahn- 
singing  had  ceased,  and  a  sermon  was  being  delivered  in  a  hoarse,  monotonous  tone.  Steen- 
wyk  lool<ed  through  the  door  of  the  sacristy  and  enquired  of  the  sentinel  how  far  they  were, 
merely  as  an  excuse  to  see  more  clearly  what  the  Puritans  were  doing. 

"The  third  night-watch  has  just  begun!"  grumbled  out  the  sentinel.  "It  will  soon  be 
day-break — it  is  high  time  for  repentance.'" 

About  a  (liird  part  of  the  'guardians'  now  remained  in  the  nave  of  the  church;  the 
others  had  marched  off  to  relieve  the  last  part,  who  were  at  their  posts.  Notwithstanding 
the  godliness  of  the  Roundheads,  and  in  spite  of  the  fulminating  sermon  by  an  old  sergeant 
of  the  iron  times,  most  of  the  bearded  figures  were  fast  asleep. 

"Now  is  the  time!"  whispered  van  Dyck. 

Steenwyk  turned  the  lock  of  the  outward  door  of  the  sacristy  with  as  little  noise  as 
possible,  and,  assisting  his  celebrated  companion,  succeeded  in  reaching  the  outside  of  the  church. 
Without  stopping  to  re-lock  the  door,  they  hastened  their  steps  in  the  direction  of  the  par- 
sonage, sprang  over  the  hedge  which  enclosed  the  garden,  and  threw  their  hats  up  to  a  small 
illumined  window  in  the  uppermost  story  of  the  house.  They  were,  however,  wrong  in  their 
supposition  that  it  was  the  vicar  who  was  up  so  late  at  his  studies.     • 

The  shrill  tones  of  trumpets,  "the  holy  sounds  of  the  trumpet  of  the  sanctuary,"  were 
vibrating  through  the  naves  of  the  church — a  sign  the  Roundheads  had  missed  their  pri- 
soners— when  the  window  opened  and  a  female  head  enveloped  in  a  waving  night-cap  pre- 
sented itself. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  enquired  a  very  peevish  voice. 

"That  is  not  the  vicar's  daughter,"  whispered  van  Dyck  to  his  friend. 

"Who  else  should  it  be?"  said  the  other  in  a  subdued  tone.  "Noble  lady,"  said 
Steenwyk,  "we  are  in  the  most  threatening  danger— it  is  life  or  death  with  us-    —  — " 

"Who  are  you?" 

"Do  you  not  know  the  two  painters  that  you  introduced  to  your  father  in  his  study? 
I  entreat  you  to  open  the  door  and  to  rouse  the  vicar  that  he  may  procure  us  a  place  of 
concealment,  for  in  a  few  minutes  the  soldiers  of  General  Fairfax  will  be  here  again  to 
overpower  us Did  you  not  hear  the  alarm  sounded?" 

"Are  you  Steenwyk?" 

"Do  not  doubt  it,  and  for  heaven's  sake  make  haste." 

"I  will  be  down  directly." 

The  fugitives  sought  the  entrance  door  from  the  garden  to  the  parsonage,  which  was 
behind  the  house  and  not  visible  from  the  church,  and  Avaited  with  beating  hearts!  After  a 
few  minutes — which  appeared  to  them  hours— had  elapsed,  they  heard  the  bolt  drawn,  and 
the  door  was  half  opened. 

"Come  in!" 

"When  the  painters  entered  the  house  they  started  back  in  amazement.  It  was  not 
the  ehy  daughter  of  the  vicar  who  stood  before  them! 

"Lady  Montrose!"  stammered  out  Steenwyk. 

"Lady  Fairfax!"  whispered  van  Dyck. 

"How  is  this?"  asked  the  lady,  offering  Steenwyk  her  hand  and  casting  a  half  dis- 


THE  RELEASE  OF  ST.  PETER,  AFTER  HENDRYK  STEENWYIC.  JOS 

dainful  look  at  van  Dyck:  "What  lias  my  brave  protector  of  the  Ouse  bridge  in  cointiion  witli 
my  pursuers?'" 

"I  praj-  you,  my  lady,  reserve  your  scorn!"  said  van  Dyck.  "She,  whom  I  so 
oft'endcd,  is  too  noble  minded  to  cause  me  to  blush  when  I  beg  her  to  save  my  life — "' 

"Master  van  Dyck,  you  speak  truth;  I  am  too  generous  to  cause  the  crimson  to  flow 

into  the  cireeks   of  those  whom  the  fear  of  death  has  blanched But    no,"'   continued 

she,  quickly  stepping  up  to  van  Dyck  and  presenting  her  hand,  "away  with  all  ill  feeling — 
You  are  really — for  I  will  call  it  the  freak  of  an  artist  — too  hardly  dealt  with,  and  I  should 
indeed  accuse  myself  of  cruelty  were  I  not  from  my  heart  to  forgive  you  -  —  — "' 

"Madam,"  answered  van  Dyck,  gravely,  "as  you  have  declared  me  a  coward,  I  dare 
not  touch  your  fair  hand " 

"Without  doing  my  noble  husband  an  injustice,  I  dare  assure  you  that  he  would  turn 
pale  as  you,  were  he,  instead  of  marching  to  the  field  of  battle,  as  you  are  at  this  moment 
— sentenced  for  execution — Are  you  content  with  this  explanation?" 

Van  Dyck  reverentially  raised  the  hand  of  Lady  Fairfax  to  his  lips. 

At  this  juncture  a  succession  of  violent  knocks  was  heard  on  the  chief  door  of  the 
parsonage. 

"There  they  are!"  said  Lady  Fairfax.  "They  must  not  find  you  here,  Master  Anton, 
or  your  case  will  take  a  most  desperate  turn.  The — attention  you  paid  me  on  the  high 
road " 

"I  entreat  your  silence ' 

"Impossible,  Sir follow  me,  that  I  may  shew  you — if  not  altogether  an  agree- 
able place  of  concealment "' 

She  desired  the  painters  to  ascend  the  stairs,  and  conducted  thein  to  her  sleeping 
apartment,  the  door  of  wliich  she  made  fast. 

"I  Avas  about  to  tell  jou  before,  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  me  to  speak  a  word 

in  your  behalf;  for  Sir  Thomas  is  more  jealous  than  Othello How  can  I  speak  in  favour 

of  a  man  who,  in  such  an  extraordinary,  unheard  of  manner,  paid  attention  to  me — " 

And  the  lady  blushed. 

"Although  at  perfect  liberty  to  speak,"  continued  the  lady,  "I  was  obliged  to  be 
silent  when,  on  my  arrival  here,  I  learned  that  you  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  the  soldiers, 
and  were  declared  their  prisoners;  and  up  to  the  moment  that  you  came  to  the  garden  I 
had  not  been  able,  although  my  thoughts  kept  me  from  sleeping,  to  devise  any  plan 
by  which  I  could  with  delicacy  render  you  assistance.  But  we  have  no  time  to  lose,  we 
must  act " 

"1  do  believe  the  soldiers  are  coming  up  the  stairs,"  muttered  Steenwyk.  Lady  Fair- 
fax drew  the  curtains  of  the  lofty  bed  aside,  and  turned  do^wi  the  bed-clothes. 

"There  is  no  time  for  reflection,"  said  she  earnestly.  "In!  in!  remain  motionless,  aud 
remember,  when  the  moment  of  suspense  shall  be  over,  remember,  I  say,  that  in  concealing 
you  I  have  risked  my  happiness,  my  honour,  and  my  life." 

The  painters,  acting  under  her  direction,  sprang  into  the  bed!  The  Lady  covered  tliem 
over,  and  drew  the  curtains  close. 

The  opening  and  shutting  of  doors  shewed  that  the  Puritans  Avere  searching  for  the 
prisoners  in  every  chamber. 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  li 


106  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

"Hold!"  ciietl  tlic  vicMi-  in  a  liollow  tone.  "Venture  not  to  knock  at  this  door — Here 
sleeps  Lady  Fairfax — No  one  has  a  right  to  intrude  upon  her  in  her  own  chamber "' 

"Who  says  so?"  demanded  a  voice.    "Back  with  you!" 

"Sir  Thomas!"  muttered  Lady  Fairfax,  turning  deadly  pale.  With  trembling  hands 
she  opened  a  prayer-hook  and  placed  it  ujion  the  table.  . 

She  folded  her  hands  in  despair,  for  a  moment,  and  with  a  heavy  sigh  she  withdrew 
the  bolt  of  tlie  door.    She  opened  it,  and  on  the  threshold  stood  General  Fairfax. 

"Are  the  Royalists  before  the  city?"  she  asked  with  an  elevated  voice. 

"I  know  nothing  about  tlicm,"  answered  her  husband.  "The  question  is  whether  they 
are  here,  in  this  house.  1  am  certain  of  it!  This  cursed  Catholic  painter  must  be  somewhere 
here  concealed,  and  I  will  find  him,  though  I  reduce  the  house  to  a  heap  of  ruins " 

"My  noble  husband " 

"Was  it  you  who  let  this  bandit,  this  van  Dyck,  into  the  house?" The  garden 

gate  was  found  open 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  Sir,"  said  the  lady  haughtily. 

"What  means  your  strange-  emotion?'"  asked  Fairfax  regarding  his  wife  with  a  fiery 
look;  "I  never  saw  you  so  before!" 

"I  could  say  the  same  with  respect  to  yourself — • " 

"Oh!   we   will  not  bandy  words  here 1  will,  without  further  delay,  examine 

this  case  thoroughly." 

He  entered  the  chamber  and  was  about  to  draw  the  bed  curtains 

"Hold,  Sir!"  cried  the  lady,  with  a  firm  voice,  and  drawing  the  General  away  from 
the  bed.  "Hold!  Is  it  your  intention  to  insult  me  in  the  presence  of  your  soldiers?  At  once 
close  the  door,  after  j-ou  liave  ordered  your  followers  to  withdraw." 

Fairfax,  in  surprise,  tarried  a  moment,  then  by  a  sign  commanded  his  men  to  retire. 
The  husband  and  wife  stood  face  to  face. 

"Well?"  said  he  in  an  excited  tone,  "has  your  ladyship  any  other  objection  to  make 
against  my  searching  that  bed?" 

"Tom!  Tom!"  exclaimed  the  lady  in  that  affectionate  tone  which  seldom  failed  to 
touch  his  heart.    "What  a  scene!  Li  what  a  terrible  situation  you  have  placed  me! ' 

"I?— 1?" 

"You,  for  you  would  prove  that  I  have  the  interest  of  others  to  defend,  and  not 
yours " 

"The  interests  of  that  shameless  painter!" 

"No,  my  own,  Tom." 

"Call  me  not  Tom;  at  this  moment  I  am  Fairfax,  and  I  demand  an  explanation  from 
my  wife." 

"You  are   right:   Sir  Thomas   and  Lady  Fairfax  stand  towards  each  other  as   two 

persons  with  separate  rights;  although  but  one  should  be  current — love In  the  name  of 

that  right,  and  of  the  respect  which  Lady  Fairfax  demands  of  her  lord,  she  desires  him  in- 
stantly to  leave  her." 

"When  I  have  examined  that  bed " 

"By  all  that  you  hold  sacred,  by  our  love,  by  our  hitherto  uninterrupted  happiness  as 


THE    KKLKASE    OF    ST.    PETER,    AFTEU    IIENDUYK    STKENWVK.  107 

liushand   and   wife,  I  entreat   you  not  to  lay   liand  on  that  bed "  said  the  lady   in  the 

highest  state  of  agitation. 

"You  have  concealed  the  p.iinter  there?"  asked  the  General,  turning  pale. 

"I  will  not — I  dare  not  answer  your  tjuestion." 

"Away  with  you!"  cried  Fairfax,  directing  his  eyes  towards  the  bed,  and  laying  his 
hand  on  his  sword. 

"One   word  more,  but  one If  you  touch  that  bed  I  swear  that  our  marriage  is 

annulled.    From  that  moment  we  part  for  ever,  as  true  as  I  am  a  daughter  of  Vane."' 

Fairfax  viewed  his  wife  with  a  look  of  horror. 

"Should  you  find  the  two  fugitives  here,  the  feelings  of  a  dishonoured  husband  would 
find  no  other  vent  than — you  would  have  no  other  resource  than  that  of  separating 
from  me " 

"By  your  death,  woman!"  muttered  Fairfax  between  his  teeth,  and  laying  his  trembling 
hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 

"Should  your  suspicions  be  not  confirmed,"  continued  the  lady  with  elevated  voice, 
"my  own  sense  of  honour  will  compel  me  to  part  from  a  man  whose  sus[iicions  were  roused 

against  me,  and  who  could  harbour  liie  feeling  of  my  being  unworthy  of  his  love Tom, 

my  dearest,  dearest  Tom — ■ Now  decide — be  a  man!" 

Sir  Tiiomas  Fairfax  stood  for  a  few  moments  deep  in  thought  and  motionless.  He 
turned  round,  and  without  uttering  a  word  he,  \viti>  furious  demeanour,  strode  hastily  out  of 
the  chamber.  Lady  Fairfax  fell  upon  her  knees,  and,  folding  her  hands,  whispered  a  fervent 
prayer. 

The  two  concealed  witnesses  of  this  trying  scene  left  their  hiding  place,  and,  coming 
forward,  with  great  emotion  kissed  the  hands  of  the  lady.  Lady  Fairfax  spoke  a  few  words 
of  encouragement  to  the  painters,  and  after  locking  the  fugitives  in  the  little  room,  and 
putting  the  key  into  her  pocket,  wrapped  herself  in  a  white  cloak  and  departed. 

The  lady  repaired  to  the  vicar. 

The  good  man,  in  the  highest  state  of  mental  anguish,  was  walking  to  and  fro  in  his 
room,  without  listening  to  the  soft  tones  of  his  beautiful  daughter's  voice,  who  was  reading 
to  him  from  a  prayer-book. 

"My  Lady  save  me  from  this  most  imminent  danger,"  said  the  vicar  with  upraised 
hands. 

"Worthy  Sir!  if  you  would  obey  me,  there  would  be  no  cause  for  any  apprehension 
on  that  score." 

"Is  not  tiie  house  surrounded  by  soldiers  with  drawn  swords?  Oh!  that  outrage  and 
destruction  should  reach  my  peaceful  home!" 

"Murmer  not.  Sir!  We  will  make  a  bargain!  Without  the  aid  of  your  daughter  Bessy 
nothing  can  be  effected." 

The  damsel  looked  off  her  book,  and  cast  an  en(|uiring  gaze  at  the  lady. 

"Have  you  accurately  noticed  the  two  strange  jKunters,  my  dear?"  said  Lady  Fairfax. 

"I  do  not  understand  your  Ladyship,"  replied  the  girl,  iilushing. 

"Then  listen;  you  are  a  sensible  girl,  and  I  am  sure  you  would  not,  for   the  sake  of 

modesty,  which  at  any  other  time  would  be  highly  connnendahle,  be  the  means  of  producing 

a  great  calamity " 

14* 


108  THE  GALLERIES  OP  VIENNA. 

Bessy  rose  in  great  consternation. 

"Wliat  can  a  noble  lady  desire  from  a  poor  girl  like  me?" 

"You  shall   do   that  which   poor  as  well   as   rich  girls   have  always  been  very  glad 

to  do The  case  is  this — You  must  choose  a  husband!  You  know  the  two  foreign  artists. 

1  give  you  my  word  that  these  arc  both  worthy  men;  that  even  the  ladies  of  the  highest 
rank  would  feel  honoured,  were  either  of  them  to  offer  them  their  hand  in  marriage.  Which 
of  the  two  will  you  marry?" 

"My  lady " 

"I  tell  you  that  you  tnnst  marry  one  of  the  fugitives,"  proceeded  Lady  Fairfax  in  an 
impressive  tone;  "that  you  must  make  up  your  mind  and  choose  him  that  pleases  you  most 
and  that  within  an  hour  you  must  be  united  by  your  father's  hand— if  you  would  save  from 
misery  yourself,  your  ftither,  the  two  painters,  and  lastly  myself." 

Bessy  sank,  almost  fainting,  into  a  chair. 

"Well,  girl?" 

The  vicar  stood  still  as  a  statue. 

"I  will  pray!  I  will  pray,  just  for  a  minute!"  said  Bessy  in  a  half-stifled  voice,  her 
tearful  eyes  directed  to  the  book,  and  turning  over  the  leaves  with  tremliling  fingers,  though 
she  could  not  distinguish  a  letter. 

"Think  of  the  hoh'  women  mentioned  in  the  Old  Test;iment,  and  take  courage,"  said 
the  vicar  in  a  not  very  encouraging  tone.  "Was  not  Rebecca,  the  wife  of  Isaac,  obliged  to 
choose  a  husband,  although  she  had  never  seen  him?" 

"Ah,  Isaac  was  of  the  saiiie  race  as  Rebecca,  but  these  men  belong  even  to  a  different 
people  than  I " 

"Therefore  are  there  two,  Bessy,  so  you  may  ciioose  the  one  you  have  a  preference 
for — undoubtedly  a  verj'  desirable  circumstance,  which  witii  the  marriage  of  Rebecca  was  not 
the  case,  "observed  the  vicar  profoundly." 

Bessy  did  not  seem  able  to  attend  to  her  devotion. 

"My  lady,"  she  said,  "can  you  solemnly  promise  me  that  my  father,  if  I  marry  one 
of  the  strangers,  will  not  be  punished  for  giving  him  the  keys  of  the  church?" 

"That  I  will  garantee!" 

"Will  my  husband  love   and  respect   me?    Ah,  noble  lady,  pardon  me  for  asking  a 

question  which   the  Almighty  only  can  answer" Mere  her  voice  grew  inaudible;  the 

poor  girl  was  really  offering  her  prayer  to  heaven,  imploring  for  support  in  the  hour 
of  trial. 

"Have  you  resolved,  my  dear?"  said  the  lady,  stroking  the  pale. cheek  of  the  other- 
wise rosy,  fresh  coloured  maiden. 

"Without  presuming,  my  daughter  would  prefer  the  gentleman  in  black,  who  has 
hurt  his  foot,"  observed  the  vicar.  "I  have  really  forgotten  his  name,  but  1  know  that  he  is 
a  very  celebrated " 

"No,"  said  Bessy,  with  a  firm  voice.  "That  cavalier  pinched  my  arm,  and  wanted  to 
embrace  me  the  first  time  he  saw  me  at  our  door,    lie  would  never  be  true  to  me  were  I  to 

become  his  wife 1   will  accept   the  other  gentleman,  whose  countenance  declares  his 

honour  and  his  truth,  as  my  bridegroom." 

"E.xcellent!"  exclaimed  Lady  Fairfax,  and  she  threw  her  arms  round  Bessy. 


THE    KELEASK    OF    ST.    PETER,    AFTER   HEXDKYK    i5TEENWYK.  109 

The  lady  hurried  away,  but  soon  returned  Lriiiging  witli  her  the  two  jiainters. 
"Gentlemen,"  said  she,  "desperate  matters  require  desperate  measures.  I  nuist  remind 
you  of  tlie  scene  of  whicli  you  were  witnesses,  and  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  of  this 
house  being  surrounded  by  the  military.  After  a  struggle  worthy  of  a  heroine,  this  charming 
girl  has  resolved  upon  taking  one  of  you  two  gentlemen  as  her  liusband,  and  without  loss 
of  time,  to  marry  him,  in  order  that  she  may  be  enabled  with  honour  to  declare,  that  it  was 

she  who  kept  you  concealed  in  her  chamber If  this  be  accomplished,  I  will  take  upon 

myself  to  say  that  Sir  Thomas  Fairfax  will  be  so  well  pleased  with  the  unexpected  turn   of 

events  as   to  set  you  at  liberty,  and  you  will  be  free   to    go  wherever  you  please 

Your  answer?" 

"My  lady,"  said  van  Dyck,  "life  and  liberty  need  not  be  at  stake  to  induce  any  one 
to  acknowledge  the  amiability,  the  excellence,  and  the  beauty  of  this  young  lady.  It  would 
be  wonderful  if  I  were  to  succeed  in  obtaining,  in  this  part  of  the  world,  the  wife  that  I 
have  sought  every  where  else  in  vain.  But  should  I  be  the  fortunate  one  chosen  by  JMiss 
Bessy,  I  should  also  have  the  consolation  of  being  married  in  the  most  unusual  way  in 
the  world!" 

"And  what  say  you,  Steenwyk?" 

"O,  I  cannot  put  myself  in  comparison,  even  as  a  lover,  with  my  master;  but  this  I 

can  say,  that,  if  the  young  lady  should  choose  me,  she  should  never  have  cause  to  repent  it." 

Lady   Fairfax  took   Bes.sy's  hand   and  placed  it   in  that  of  the  honest  "Perspective." 

The  officer  of  the  guard  by  this  time  had  entered  the  house.    Ten   minutes  later  General 

Fairfax  was  on  the  spot. 

Lady  Fairfax  fell  on  the  bosom  of  her  husband  and  bathed  it  with  tears  of  joy. 
"Well,  Thomas,  you  see  now  that  I   was  right!    Can  you  cast  any  imputation  upon 
the  maid  for  having  concealed  her  lover?" 

"This  gives  quite  a  different  reading  to  the  comedy." 

"Reverend  Sir,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  prove  the  correctness   of  my   statement? 

Marry  this  handsome  couple,  and  permit  Sir  Thomas  to  give  away  the  bride " 

Sir  Thomas'  countenance  suddenly  brightened.  He  kissed  his  lady  on  the  forehead 
with  an  affectionate  smile,  and  took  the  hand  of  Bessy.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was  Steen- 
wyk's  wife. 

Before  day-break  General  Fairfax  with  his  troops  vacated  the  town  of  Newport.  He 
did  not  neglect  to  make  the  young  wife  a  handsome  present,  nor  did  he  omit  to  send  the 
painters  a  'pass'  which  would  be  respected  by  all  the  officers  of  the  Parliament  troops.  The 
picture  was  left  to  the  church. 

Steenwyk,  who  with  his  wife  soon  afterwards  repaired  to  London,  became  the  inti- 
mate friend  of  van  Dyck.  He  learned  to  paint,  and  ^vorked  on  several  of  his  master's  prin- 
cipal pictures,  amongst  others  on  that  of  the  portrait  of  King  Charles  I.  and  his  queen,  in 
which  he  painted  the  architectural  part.  At  a  later  period  van  Dyck  painted  Steenwyk's 
portrait— an  earnest,  honest,  clever  looking  countenance,  with  beard,  mustachios,  and 
bushy  hair. 

Hendryk  Steenwyk,  whose  numerous  pictures,  notwithstanding  the  war,  found  ready 
purchasers,  and  which  are  ornaments  to  many  private  galleries  in  this  country,  died  in  the 
prime  of  life,  in  the  year   1642.     His   wife,    who    had    educated    herself   as    a    painter   of 


1  1  n  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

architecture,  followed  the  example  of  a  great  many  English  families  who  emigrated  to  the 
continent,  and  sought  out  the  relations  of  her  husband  in  Antwerp.  In  that  city  she  pi'actised 
her  art  successfully;  and  at  the  same  time — if  the  confused  accounts  extant  be  correct — 
represented,  during  this  period,  remarkable  symbols  of  death,  soap  bubbles,  torches  half 
burnt  out,  scales,  &c.  The  year  of  her  dcatli  is  not  exactly  known,  but  it  took  place 
between  1674— 1 078. 


THE   PET   FLOWEFi, 


AFTER 

GERHARD    DOW. 


Many  pictures  Ijy  this  master  are  like  short,  delicious  poems,  and  the  analogy  is 
borne  out  liy  the  present  subject.  A  lonely  old  widow,  whose  existence  depends  upon  her 
own  industry  at  her  spinning-wheel,  appears  at  the  window,  about  to  water  her  'pet  flower,' 
which  to  her  is  of  equal  value  with  the  rich  corn-field  of  the  land  proprietor,  the  green 
wood  of  the  aristocratic  sportsman,  or  the  conservatory  with  its  glittering  panes  ornamented 
by  tlie  palm  leaves,  and  the  s]ilendid  park  of  the  millionaire.  The  modest  flower,  inclusive 
of  the  pot  which  contains  it,  is  perhaps  not  worth  two  stivers;  but  the  old  woman  finds  plea- 
sure in  fostering  it,  aye,  more  than  many  an  opulent  possessor  of  a  Harlemer  tulip  bulb  de- 
rives from  viewing  that  which  has  cost  him  many  a  thousand  gulden — all  depending  upon 
his  good  or  ill  luck  on  Change. 


THE    VOW, 


AFTER 

TIZIAN. 

Although  tlie  great  Venetian  master,  amongst  the  very  numerous  portraits  by  his 
hand,  jiroduced  a  number  of  works  which  are  esteemed  as  master-pieces  of  Tizian,  but  few 
can  be  chosen  out  of  them  which  merit  the  title  of  gems.  Of  the  'choicest  of  the  choice'  ex- 
ecuted by  Tizian  in  the  portrait  department,  may  be  mentioned  "The  Vow,"  or  the  por- 
trait of  St.  Aloysius  Gonzaga.  Besides  this  are  only  those  of  the  Cardinal  Ippolito  de'Medici, 
and  Giovanni  de"  Medici,  the  father  of  Cosimo  I.,  who  fell  in  the  battle  of  ]\Iantua,  and  Ka- 
tharina  Cornora  of  Cypern,  the  cruelly  deceived  daughter  of  the  Venetian  Republic.  The 
two  last  are  in  the  collection  formerly  in  the  possession  of  the  Grand  Duke;  the  first  in 
the  'Pitti'  Gallery  in  Florence. 

St,  Aloysius  is  represenl'ed  at  the  moment  when  his  mind  was   distracted  by  worldly 


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CHILDHOOD,  AKIKIJ  J.  PITiNEK.  —  MOKSIGNOKK  CAML'CCINI.  Ill 

affairs,  when  he  contemplateil  joining  in  the  struggles  kintlHng  against  ]>r()u<l  France,  and 
withdrawing  from  tlie  church  for  wliich  he  had  already  prepared  himself.  Ready  to  pro- 
ceed, and  holding  two  arrows  in  his  hand,  he  was  overcome  hy  a  sudden  light  appearing 
from  above — he  bciield  in  his  hand  a  sponge,  and  felt  a  strong  sensation,  when  it  in  an  un- 
accountable manner,  vanished,  that  this  sponge  bore  an  allusion  to  the  sufferings  and  death 
of  our  Saviour.  In  that  moment  St.  Aloysius  vowed  to  dedicate  his  life  to  the  service  of 
the  Kedeemer. 

The  expression  of  countenance  in  this  portrait  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  pro- 
duction of  Tizian's;  it  reminds  us  of  Fiesoe's  devotional,  ecstatic  heads.  The  picture  is  free 
from  all  intrusive  accessoi'ies,  greatly  adding  to  the  triumph  of  the  painter,  who,  contrary  to 
his  custom,  has  touched  only  upon  the  sublime  to  accomplish  his  oliject. 


CHILDHOOD, 

AFTER 

J.  PITNER. 


A  charming  composition,  i-epresenting  juvenile  amusements,  from  the  infant,  in  the 
nrmi3  of  the  nursery-maid,  enjoying  the  fragrance  of  the  warm  summer  breeze,  the  child 
playing  with  a  cat  or  pondering  over  her  school  task,  to  the  sturdy,  healthy  looking  boys, 
one  of  whom  is  wading  through  the  water,  attentively  engaged  in  directing  the  progress  of 
a  little  boat  with  a  sail.  The  piece  is  natural,  the  drawing  decided,  and  the  lights  in  the 
picture  excellent. 


MONSIGNORE  CAMUCCINI, 

AFTER 

AN  UNKNtJWN  PAINTER  OP  THE  MODEKN  KOJIAN  SCHOOL. 


This  exquisite  portrait  proves  that  the  Italians,  notwithstanding  the  unhajijiv  state  of 
politics  which  has  disturbed  their  country,  have  not  lost  (hat  high  feeling  for  art  which  so 
pre-eminently  distinguished  their  forefathers.  The  portrait  of  the  ecclesiastical  prince  is 
simply,  but  very  cleverly  conceived.  All  frippery  and  garnish  are  carefully  avoided,  in  order 
not  to  interfere  with  the  representation  of  character,  which  is  most  vigorously  delineated: 
there  is,  at  the  same  time,  an  intellectuality  in  it  which  could  be  achieved  only  by  an  artist 
of  a  contemplative  mind. 


112  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

ST.  HERMANN, 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK. 


This  painter,  however  inefficient  in  the  delineation  of  the  more  violent  emotions 
of  the  mind,  is  great  in  the  portrayal  of  scenes  expressive  of  the  tender  passions 
or  of  lamentation,  of  which  the  picture  of  St.  Hermann  affords  an  excellent  specimen. 
The  saint,  a  handsome  young  man,  is  overpowered  by  his  devotional  sensations,  and 
receives  from  the  holy  virgin  the  'scar'  of  Chi-ist.  An  angel  is  holding  the  right  hand  of 
St.  Hermann,  which  the  virgin  delicately  touches  with  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  A  scholar  of 
the  saint  views  the  miracle  with  astonishment.  The  action  of  the  piece  is  sober  and  refined; 
the  expression  full  of  deep  feeling,  the  draperies  bold  and  harmonious,  with  the  exception 
of  that  of  the  angel,  which  is  complicated,  and  does  not  exhibit  an  appearance  of  having 
just  descended  to  earth. 

St.  Hermann  was  a  Margrave  of  Baden,  and  died  a  monk,  in  the  monastery  of 
Clugny,  in  the  year  1071. 


THE  HERDSMAN, 

AFTER 

PAUL  POTTEK. 


In  his  best  days  only  did  Paul  Potter  seek  to  compose  a  landscape  to  harmonize  with 
his  figures.  In  his  early  days  he  devoted  less  attention  to  animal  figures  than  to  the  sur- 
rounding landscape,  which  he'  carefully  treated,  in  order  to  give  an  additional  interest  to  the 
picture.  By  degrees  he  became  more  minute  in  the  portraiture  of  his  figures,  which,  from 
their  studied  representation  solely,  attracted  the  attention  of  the  beholdei-.  Ultimately  he 
produced  animals  without  any  accessory  landscape,  for  instance  the  large  bullock, — in  the 
Hague, — the  fat  cow,  &c.  He  no  longer  considered  light,  air,  ground,  or  any  attribute,  as  ne- 
cessary to  his  animals. 

Of  greater  value  are  those  pictures  which,  like  the  celebrated  Potter  in  the  Czernin 
Gallery,  and  the  cow  viewing  her  own  figure  reflected  in  the  water,  &c.,  appear  justly  equipoised. 
In  these  pieces  Potter  gives  exactly  the  sufficient  detail  to  his  animals  that  they  require,  con- 
sidering their  distance  from  the  fore-ground,  and  according  as  the  lights  in  reality  would  be 
perceptible,  thereby  rendering  them  the  more  correct.  There  is  a  tone  in  this  description  of 
pictures,  for  the  absence  of  which  the  most  minute  'liair'  painting  cannot  compensate. 

The  "Herdsman"  was  painted  nearly  at  the  time  when  the  master  had  reached  the 
zenith  of  his  fame,  before  he  had  wholly  dispensed  with  tlie  effect  of  scenery.  The  morning 
is  cool,  the  sky  cloudy,  and  the  herdsman  is  following  his  cattle,  slowly  threading  their  way 


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ATTIiNTION,    AFTKR     DAVID    TENIKliS.  113 

over  a  fornewhnt  heavy  landscape.  A  liill  partly  covered  with  verdure  stands  in  the  niiddle- 
o;round.  On  the  right  are  the  first  houses  of  the  village,  nearly  concealed  by  trees.  On  the 
brow  of  the  hill  is  perceptible  a  cart,  proceeding  in  the  direction  of  the  town  in  the  distant 
back-ground.  In  the  harmony,  which  pervades  throughout  this  picture,  it  is  very  clear  that 
Master  Potter  was  not  forced  to  any  display  of  detail  in  order  to  render  it  prominent. 


A  T  T  E  N  T  I  0  N, 

AFTER 

DAVID  TENIEKS. 


This  is  one  of  the  most  simple,  and  at  the  same  time  one  of  the  most  vigorous  pictures 
of  Tenicrs.  On  a  close  examination  of  this  piece  we  discover  that  the  son  has  worked  it  out 
more  in  the  style  of  his  father,  although  it  is  not  so  highly  finished  as  Teniers'  works  in 
general.  Xo  doubt,  this  is  one  of  the  master's  earlier  productions.  The  subject  in  itself  is 
very  unpretending,  but  worked  out  with  a  singular  force  of  expression.  The  painting  of  the 
figures  is  exceedingly  good ;  the  scenery  not  so  effective  or  agreeable  as  we  usually  find  in 
the  'out-of-door'  pictures  of  Teniers. 


THE  YOUNG  HOUSEKEEPER, 


AFTER 

GOTTFEIED  ECHALKEK. 


Gottfried  Schalken  van  Dortrecht  takes  a  peculiar  position  in  the  train  of  the  Dutch 
genre  painters  of  the  seventeenth  century.  He  is  the  painter  of  night-pieces.  Schalken  cer- 
tainly produced  many  pictures  with  bright  sun-light  effects,  but  these  would  hardly  be  suf- 
ficient to  raise  his  name  amongst  the  greatest  of  his  contemporaries. 

Schalken  belongs  to  the  Rembrandt  school,  and  was  the  scholar  of  Gerard  Dow  and 
Samuel  Hoogstraten.  His  chiaroscuro  is  comparable  to  that  of  the  estimable  head-master 
Rembrandt,  and  his  high  finish  equal  to  that  of  Dow  or  Mieris;  he  sought  out  a  path  for 
himself,  in  which  his  beauties  shone  forth  with  peculiar  lustre. 

Rembrandt  produced  a  number  of  pieces  in  which  the  illumination  is  effected  by  arti- 
ficial means, — light-lamps,  flambeaux,  torches  &c.  But  old  Paul's  object  was  not  to  diffuse 
flashes  of  accidental  lights  on  his  figures — his  chief  point  was  his  magical  working  up  of 
the  middle  tints,  changing  from  the  most  brilliant  light  to  the  deepest  shadow,  so  as 
to     form     the     most     striking     contrast.     Rembrandt's     figures,     badly     drawn,     ofttimes 


Galleries  of  Vienu&. 


114  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

scarcely  discernible,  seemed  to  be  introduced  for  no  other  purpose  than  their  acting  as 
vehicles  of  light,  or,  in  other  words,  to  display  his  niajric  power  over  the  effect  of  light. 

Gerard  Dow  in  liis  time  painted  many  pictures  in  which  the  'lighting  up'  was  artificial. 
We  must  not  forget  his  school  in  whicli,  tlie  little  bits  of  candle  so  changeably  lit  up  the 
faces  of  the  scholars;  but  the  effects  of  light  in  Dow's  night-pieces  are  seriously  injured  by  the 
superfluity  of  details.  Dow's  lights,  in  optical  respects,  are,  doubtless,  as  correct  as  possible, 
but,  in  his  night-pieces,  he  cannot  restrain  himself  from  introducing  matters  which  would  not 
be  visible  by  lamp-light.  This  painter  avoided  any  unliiidy  or  striking  appearance  of  effect, 
frequently  observed  in  natural  objects,  when  acted  upon  by  artificial  light:  he  chose  rather 
to  delineate  objects  as  tiiey  are  generally  seen  in  their  natural  state,  by  this  means  securing 
an  effect  in  his  picture,  without  crowding  it  with  extraordinary  attendants  which  serve  only 
to  offend  the  eye  of  the  beholder. 

For  a  long  time  Schalken  chiefly  devoted  his  attention  to  the  fantastic  and  the 
grotesque.  Like  old  Kembrandt,  he  sought  striking  objects.  By  degrees,  however,  his  judg- 
ment became  more  refined,  and  he  found  sufficcnt  op[)ortunities  to  display  his  eminent  know- 
ledge of  the  effect  of  light  even  in  the  most  common-iilace  subjects. 

Schalken  is  much  less  poetic  than  Rembrandt,  even  so  than  Dow.  Rembrandt  in  his 
lightest  etchings,  but  how  much  more  so  in  his  pictures,  enchants  by  the  surpassingly  power- 
ful impression  he  makes  ujjon  us.  In  general  any  definite  sentiment  is  seldom  represented 
in  Schalken's  pictures.  His  pieces  attract  us  chiefly,  and  speak  to  our  hearts,  when  he 
pourtrays  in  simple  genre,  active  and  lively,  roguish  or  comic  scenes. 

In  the  representation  of  scenes  which  court  our  sj'mpathy,  Schalken  is  out  of  his 
element.  Most  of  his  historical  pieces  are  exceedingly  weak,  indeed  trivial.  We  have  only  to 
call  to  our  recollection  the  very  frequent  subject,  "The  Prodigal  Son," — carousing  in  the  circle  of 
boon  companions,  or  in  the  society  of  women  of  worthless  character — the  "Penitent  Magdalen," 
"Christ  scoffed  at,"  &c.  The  composition,  the  intrinsic  power,  and  the  exterior  aj)pearance  of 
the  figures — all  is  so  at  variance  with  legitimate  truth,  that  it  is  evident  all  these  pictures 
were  got  up  for  the  mere  purpose  of  displaying  Schalken's  power  in  the  treatment  of  light. 

In  cheerful  genre  subjects,  Schalken  worked  with  freedom  and  certainty.  He  knew^ 
how  to  invest  the  scene  he  represented  with  such  hilarity  that  his  effects  of  light  formed 
only  a  subordinate  feature  in  the  picture.  We  may  mention,  as  an  instance,  a  picture  in  the 
Pinakothek  in  Munich — a  girl  with  an  youth  who  is  endeavouring  to  blow  out  the  candle; 
children  forming  shadows  on  the  wall  to  represent  hares,  once  in  Salzdahlum;  an  old  woman, 
looking  into  a  mirror,  and  terrified  at  viewing  her  profile  shadowedon  the  wall,  while  a  laughing 
damsel  is  holding  the  candle.  Schalken  is  equally  successful,  although  the  matter  in  itself 
is  less  effective,  when  he  paints  figures,  by  candle-light,  employed  in  ordinary  occupations. 

To  these  belong  "The  young  Housekeeper,"  who  is  just  about  to  put  the  lighted 
candle  into  the  lantern;  the  "Old  Woman," — in  the  Belvedere  Gallery — ,  "reading  a  letter;" 
the  "Girl  examining  Eggs,"  in  Dresden;  "Two  Monks  by  torch-light,"  in  Pommersfelde;  the 
"Old  Lady  giving  food  to  two  starving  boys,"  from  the  collection  of  the  Duke  of  Berry,  &c. 

This  painter  often  succeeded  in  ^nre  scenes  where  he  gave  wider  scope  to  his  pre- 
tensions. His  "Corps  de  Garde"  jn  the  Hague,  is  a  good  pendant  to  Rembrandt's  "Night 
Watch."  In  Berlin  is  a  picture  of  "Tlie  Young  Fisherman,"  a  boy  sitting  under  the  boughs 
of  a  willow,  and  angling  in  the  canal.    On  a  yellow  iris  have  lighted  Ijutterfiies.    At   his  feet 


Ai^ 


THE    WANUElilNG    MINSTliKl.S,     AITKH   JAN    LCIITERVELT.  115 

is  a  pot  of  water,  and  a  fisli  wliicli  lie  lius  caiiglit.  The  eye  ranges  over  a  level  landscape 
in  the  back-ground;  the  sky  is  overcast  with  clouds  threatening  a  thunder  storm. 

Of  Schalken's  most  cclohrated  historical  pieces,  one  of  the  best  is  "I'eter  denying 
Christ,"  in  the  Liechtenstein  Gallery,  and  another,  "The  AVise  and  the  Foolish  Virgins,"  in 
Munich.    The  engraving  from  this  picture  is  well  known. 

Schalken  died  in  the  Hague,  at  the  age  of  si.xty  three,  in  the  year  1766. 


THE  WANDERING  MINSTRELS, 


AFTER 

JAN  OCHTERVELT. 


Uchtervelt,  a  scholar  and  imitator  of  Gabriel  Metzu's,  may  pass  for  a  clever  artist. 
He  possesses  as  little  feeling  for  the  ideal  as  his  master  or  the  other  contemporaneous 
Dutch  painters  of  cabinet  pictures;  his  pieces,  however,  from  the  freedom  of  delineation  which 
he  exercised,  are  superior  to  many  others  of  more  renowned  painters,  whose  chief  aim  was  to 
present  as  far  as  possible  a  correct  copy  of  natural  objects.  While  Dow,  Terljerg,  and  Metzu 
endeavour  to  conceal  the  object  on  which  tiieir  figures  are  engaged,  Uchtervelt  contrives  to 
introduce  an  animated  scene  which  tells  upon  the  eye  of  the  beholder.  We  find  for  the 
most  part  a  mixture  of  humorous  by-play  in  the  pictures  of  this  master. 

In  viewing  "The  Wandering  Minstrels"  we  conclude  that  the  lady  in  silk  attire,  witii 
her  cliild  and  maid,  have  been,  the  moment  before,  playing  cheerfully  ni  peace  and  quiet  on 
the  beautifully  parquetted  floor  of  the  entrance-hall.  Suddenly  the  street  door  opens,  and 
two  ludicrous  figures  of  young  musicians,  one  playing  a  sort  of  organ,  the  other  the  fiddle, 
and  both  singing,  come  to  pay  their  respects.  The  lady,  surprized  by  the  unexpected  ap- 
pearance, raises  her  hands,  while  the  child,  pleased  with  the  noise,  hurries  forward  to  meet 
the  musicians. 

Though  Uchtervelt  works  with  precisely  the  same  spirit  as  Metzu,  he  invariably  finds 
an  opportunity  of  making  his  humour  tell.  In  Dresden  is  a  picture  of  a  lady  in  the  costume 
which  this  painter  loved  to  represent:  the  lady  is  dressed  in  white  satin  and  red  velvet  edged 
with  white  fur;  in  her  lap  she  holds  a  small  dog  with  which  a  little  girl  is  j)laying.  The 
lady  is  reaching  a  glass  to  an  old  gentleman  for  a  slice  of  lemon.  The  comically  tender 
grimaces  of  the  old  gentleman,  while  cutting  the  lemon  in  order  with  all  granclezxa  to 
"sacrifice  it  to  the  altar  of  love,"  is  inimitable. 

Little  is  known  of  Uchtcrvelt'.s  career.  It  is  probable  that  many  of  his  pictures  bear 
another  name.  His  most  famous  pieces  were  produced  in  the  seventh  deccnnium  of  the  seven- 
teenth century. 


15* 


116  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 


A  M   0   R, 

AFTER 

W.  DE  POORTER. 


Willem  De  Poorter,  by  birth  a  Harlemer,  is  reputed  a  scholar  of  Rembrandt's, 
although  very  little  similarity  can  be  discovered  between  the  works  of  master  and  pupil. 
His  style  of  painting  belongs  more  to  the  time  when  Rembrandt's  chiaroscuro  had  not  yet 
begun  to  exercise  that  decided  influence  at  which  it  afterwards  arrived  in  the  art  of  repre- 
sentation. Poorter  produced  a  number  of  pictures  in  what  is  called  correct,  but  mannered 
style,  which  Rembrandt  often  in  his  peculiar  way  endeavoured  to  make  ridiculous,  by  painting 
similar  but  exaggerated  representations.  De  Poorter  could  scarcely  have  been  younger  than 
Rembrandt,  and  we  should  arrive  more  nearly  at  the  trutii  when  we  say  that  Poorter — whose 
,  feeling  was  more  congenial  with  Theodore  van  Thulden,  Cornelisz  Schut,  Gerhard  Segher — 
painted  in  an  attenuated  and  mannered  style  after  the  prototype  of  Rubens — still  more  after 
that  of  Van  Dyck, — and  endeavoured  at  the  same  time  to  appropriate  the  beauties  of  Rem- 
brandt, as  far  as  this  swerving  style  of  representation  permitted. 

Though  Poorter  had  in  view  a  sufficiency  of  meaning  for  his  pictures,  he  never 
aimed  at  a  great  effect,  like  many  of  Rubens'  successors.  His  forte  is  the  graceful  and  the 
pleasing.  For  this  reason  he  soon  gave  up  painting  large  pieces,  for  which,  in  fact,  his 
powers  were  not  calculated,  but  contented  himself  with  producing  historical,  allegorical,  and 
mythological  pictures  on  a  smaller  scale.  These  productions  gained  for  themselves  the  ap- 
probation of  connoisseurs,  for  they  were  correctly  drawn,  finely  finished,  and  were  not 
wanting  of  a  good  light  and  treatment  of  colour. 

In  Poorter's  historical  pictures,  the  subjects  of  which  were  for  the  most  part  taken 
from  the  Bible,  the  perspicuity  of  the  action,  the  agreeable  arrangement  and  beauty  of  the 
heads,  although  the  latter  often  suffer  from  an  ideal  generality  of  expression,  are  worthy  of 
remark.  Poorter's  style  of  composition  is  better  suited  for  the  illustrations  of  the  classic  poets, 
erotic  subjects,  for  the  more  cheerful  scenes  of  fancy  or  of  allegory  than  for  exact  history. 

Poorter's  "Amor"  is  represented  as  a  shepherd,  shewing  off  his  tricks  to  the  flocks  of 
sheep  and  goats  under  his  care;  and  his  blowing  bubbles  for  their  astonishment  is  not 
without  its  satirical  sting.    As  a  general  rule  the  painter  is  weak  in  piquancy. 

It  remains  for  us  only  to  add,  that  Poorter's  pictures  are  rare.  There  was  a  series 
of  Poorter's  cabinet  pieces  in  the  palace  of  Friedrich  IJlrich  of  Brunswick  at  Salzdahlum, 
where  they  were  well  understood.  Besides  Vienna  none  of  the  great  German  galleries,  that 
of  Dresden  excejited,  possess  pictures  by  this  painter.  The  Dresden  Gallery  contains  "The 
Adultress,"  conducted  by  the  Pharisees  into  the  presence  of  Christ,  in  whole  figures,  and 
"Simeon,"  kneeling  in  the  temple  with  the  infant  Jesus  in  his  arms.  Near  the  seer  kneel 
Mary  and  Joseph,  surrounded  by  priests  and  people  of  different  nations. 

Poorter,  after  he  had  become  senator  of  Harlem,  still  painted  in  the  year  1C45.  He 
seems  to  have  lived  longer  without  further  practising  his  art. 


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Xunffianolaltx 


Till-;    MOUNTAIN    KUAD,    AKTEK    PIIIL.     \V(  (UWEKMAN.  117 


THE  MOUNTAIN  ROAD. 


PHIL.  WOUWEHMAN. 


We  wander  through  the  saloons  of  the  Netherlanders.  We  at  first  cast  a  superficial 
glance  over  the  number  of  pictures  exhibited,  without  our  attention  being  attracted  to  any 
one  in  particular.  We  behold  varied  masses,  a  chaos  of  lights  and  shadows  which  remind 
us  of  the  clouds  before  sunrise,  hovering  over  the  summit  of  a  mountain  and  rolling  down  to 
our  feet. 

By  degrees,  however,  we  begin  to  distinguish  one  picture  from  another.  The  haze 
gradually  disappears  as  we  see  the  peak  of  one  mountain  after  another,  until  they  at  last 
form  a  chain  of  brilliant  lights — so  is  the  eye  enchanted  in  the  region  of  pictures  by  the 
flashes  of  lightnin'g,  by  the  masses  of  lowering  clouds,  or  by  the  halo  or  glory  round  the  head 
of  some  saint.  Now  all  is  clear.  The  white  extended  arm  of  a  female  seems  literally  held 
out  from  the  canvas;  a  waterfall  sends  forth  its  froth  to  meet  us;  a  white  steed  prances  and 
rears  his  head  as  though  he  would  leap  from  the  frame. 

We  do  not  suffer  ourselves  to  be  attracted  by  the  old  Flemings,  by  Rubens  and  his 
epigones,  whose  pictures,  with  their  brilliant  lights  and  reflected  colours,  meet  us  on  all  sides, 
Our  business  is  with  the  Dutch  painters.  We  find  but  few  pieces  which  at  a  distance  strike 
us  as  remarkable  for  their  overpowering  effects  of  light. 

Yonder  dark  looking  vessel,  blustering  and  tossed  about  by  the  wild  surge,  emitting 
phosphoric  light,  which  appears  like  silver  lace  on  the  crisp  edges  of  the  waves,  is  by  Ludolph 
Backhuysen.  The  broad,  white,  falling  waters  in  another  picture,  the  vessels  riding  at  anchor 
in  the  distant  roadstead,  and  treated  with  such  grandeur  of  eff'ect,  are  by  Everdingen. 

Near  this  other  sea-pieces,  with  their  transparent  waves,  by  Wilhelm  van  der  Velde, 
and  his  namesake  Adrian,  with  his  delightful  landscapes  and  cattle-pieces,  appear  not  less 
attractive.  A  forest  scene,  in  very  dark  keeping,  but  with  light  streaming  from  a  clear  sky 
and  playing  upon  the  stems  of  birches  reflected  in  a  shallow  clear  pool  of  water,  is  from  the 
hand  of  Ruisdael.  • 

In  a  sharply  concentrated  high  light,  gradually  dying  off"  on  one  side,  and  in  the  oppo- 
site direction  cut  off  by  coarse  shadow,  we  find  ourselves  in  the  company  of  Rembrandt. 
Even  in  the  general  forms  of  his  lights  and  shadows  this  master  is  irregular  and  fantastic; 
the  appointments  which  insure  the  effect  of  a  picture  are  seldom  discernible  at  any  distance; 
most  of  their  beauties  are  lost.  To  appreciate  Rembrandt's  effects  of  light  and  shadow,  his 
detail  and  his  contrasts,  we  must  stand  within  a  very  limited  distance,  otherwise  the  extra- 
ordinary and  delicate  changes  will  not  be  perceptible. 

Gottfried  Schalken  is  another  master  who  works  with  assistance  of  this  concentrated 
light:  he  differs  from  Rembrandt  inasmuch  as  he  is  not  carried  away  by  fantasy  only;  he 
is  not  governed  solely  by  his  flights  of  imagination,  but  manages  his  lights  more  in  accord- 
ance with  the  laws  of  nature.  As  we  have  already  stated,  none  of  his  countrymen 
have  ever  equalled   him   in   his   effects   of  lamp-light,  torch-light,  or  that  lustre  proceeding 


118  THE  GArXEKIES  OF  VIENNA, 

from  an  open  fire-place.  Van  der  Neer  painted  landscapes  with  charming  moon-light 
ett'ects. 

A  scene,  wliere  the  steady  sunlight  acts  with  equal  effect  upon  inferior  and 
upon  chief  objects,  is  beautifully  expressed  by  the  Dutch  masters.  In  such  pieces  their 
talents  were  employed  to  the  greatest  advantage.  Tiiey  did  not  resort  to  egregious  contrasts, 
— Rembrandt,  of  course,  was  an  exception:  they  sought  not  to  conjure  up  an  astonishing  effect 
by  the  intro(lucti<in  of  anomalous  ingredients  and  by  melting  one  into  the  other  to  produce 
harmony,  but  they  -ntroduced  such  objects  only  as  in  nature  itself  harmonize  together.  The 
landscapes  of  Saftlceven,  of  Cornelis  Poelenburg,  Vertangen,  Wynants,  Pynacker,  present  a 
jjcaceful,  mild,  almost  plaintive  disposition.  Swanevelt  has  more  foi'ce,  contains  more  of  the 
heroic,  in  short  reminds  us  of  Poussin  and  Claude  Lorrain. 

The  highly  wrought  detail  in  the  altogether  very  carefully  executed  pictures  of  the 
Dutch  masters,  and  indeed  for  which  this  school  stands  pre-eminent,  require  a  more  attentive 
examining  into  than  most  otiier  pictures. 

The  cabinet  pieces  of  Terburg,  Dow,  Mieris,  Metzu,  Slingelandt,  van  der  AVerff, 
Kaspar  Netscher  and  Eglin  van  der  Necr,  representing  jieaceful  scenes  of  domestic  and 
social  life,  appeal  as  precious  jewels  of  finislied  labour,  which  arc  lighted  up  with  the  highest 
accuracy,  and  attain  in  their  wonderful  colouring  the  liveliness  of  a  reflected  image  of  natural 
objects. 

A  series  of  drinking  bouts,  ugly  old  boors,  ragged  musicians,  inountebanks  and 
tinkers;  Hving  representatives  of  'old  Holland'.  All  these  cliaracters  have  been  repeatedly 
])ortrajed  by  Ostadc,  Bega,  Dusart,  Stcen,  and  their  imitators,  their  Flemish  cousins  of 
Teniers,  Brouwer,  and  Breughel. 

In  like  manner  with  these  masters,  who  painted  paragons  of  human  deformity,  did 
Peter  van  Laar  introduce  his  perfect  specimens  of  over  driven  nudes,  and  broken  down,  worn 
out  horses,  into  his  queerly  composed  and  strange  looking  landscapes.  Poor  Bamboccio,  who 
in  Rome,  by  his  cai'icatures,  so  successfully  opposed  the  prevailing  mannerism,  became  em- 
barrassed in  tlie  negation;  for  as  far  as  he  himself  was  concerned  he  was  able  to  shew  only 
what  was  false  in  painting,  without  being  able  to  shew  what  was  right.  He  felt  that  he  was 
not  in  a  situation  to  carry  out  the  latter;  he  pined  away  under  the  vexation,  which  eventually 
led  to  his  death. 

The  master  who  could»execute  the  last  ideas  of  poor  Bamboccio  was  Wouwerman. 
Scenes  of  battles  and  the  hunt,  fairs  and  markets,  horse-racing  and  attacks  of  cavalry,  the 
obscure  village  smithy,  and  robbers  on  horseback  attacking  the  passing  traveller,  were  the 
favourite  delineations  of  AVouwcrman ;  his  invention  ran  almost  solely  on  such  subjects. 

Wouwerman  is  the  painter  of  those  glorious  cavaliers  who  were  as  ready  to  storm  a 
fortress  as  to  enjoy  a  hawking  party  or  to  rob  a  fair  lady  of  her  heart.  He  represented  the 
inhabitants  of  the  old  feudal  palaces,  swarming  with  a  cavalcade  of  richly  caparisoned  fol- 
lowers; the  homeless  wanderer  who,  well  armed,  and  ready  to  rob  or  to  beg,  was  prepared  to 
act  in  any  emergency, — to  rest  on  tlie  high  road  and  to  slcc])  in  the  deep  recess  of  a 
forest;  the  hired  soldier  who  follows  his  captain  from  one  battle-field  to  the  other;  the 
vagabond  who  is  still  rich  enough  to  keep  a  horse  to  carry  himself,  and  a  mule  for  his  wife 
and  children  to  mount  together. 

Neither    tiie    cavaliers   nor   the    gipsies    and    travelling   tinkers,    the    vagabonds,  the 


THE    MOUNTAIN    UOAD,    AITEK    I'lllL     WolWEliMAN.  119 

amazoiisi,  the  bcaniiiig  huntresses,  no, — nor  the  peasant  women  on  their  mules, — play  the  chief 
characters  in  VV'oiiwerman's  pieces.  The  noble  horse  is  the  real  hero!  Seldom  could  he  com- 
plete a  picture  without  introducing  the  horse.  He  appears  to  have  lieen  a  passionate  ad- 
mirer of  tliis  l)cautiiul  animal,  for  the  steed  is  always  made  a  principal  actor,  whether 
guided  by  the  hand  of  a  lady,  a  hunter,  a  knight,  or  a  peasant. 

His  horses,  it  is  true,  are  not  of  the  fine  light  Arabian  l)reed;  in  lieu  of  them,  however, 
he  endows  them  with  a  just  degree  of  dignity  and  stateliness  of  form.  They  appear  to  be- 
long to  the  Friesland  race,  which  .we  believe  now  to  be  nearly  extinct.  For  what  is  termed 
a  genre  picture  these  animals  may  lie  considered  too  heavy,  but  for  an  historical  piece  or 
sculpture  this  class  of  horses  is  admirably  adaj)ted.  The  head  of  the  animal  is  well  formed, 
often  with  a  slightly  rounded  nose;  the  eye  not  remarkably  large,  but  full  of  fire — deeply 
sunk  in  the  head,  betokening  courage — the  neck  is  strongly  built  and  very  much  curved  from 
a  high  nape;  the  mane  and  tail  long  and  somewhat  curled.  The  breast  is  broad;  the  body 
rather  ;jhort  than  otherwise;  the  hinder  parts  are  round  and  powerful,  from  the  knee  joint 
down  to  the  fetlock  covered  with  longish  hair  which  has  a  strong  disposition  to  curl.  The 
hoof  is  of  the  middle  size,  round,  and  rather  flat. 

We  have  been  thus  precise  in  delineating  the  marked  peculiarities  of  Wouvverman's 
horses;  they  are  always  evident,  but  arc  more  or  less  varied  according  with  the  action  in 
which  the  animal  is  introduced;  retaining  these  characteristics  we  sec  them  beautifully 
idealized  in  his  inimitable  'grays,'  which  he  always  contrived  to  place  in  the  centre  of  his 
chief  group.  Never  before  the  time  ol'  Wouwerman  did  the  horse  form  one  of  the  leading 
features  in  a  picture:  it  was  not  deemed  of  sufficient  importance  to  take  so  prominent  a 
situation. 

Wouwcrman  seems  to  have  understood  the  nature  of  the  animal  which  he  so  loved 
to  portray:  he  was  never  at  a  loss  in  depicting  the  motions  of  the  horse,  whether  at  rest  or 
in  the  most  difficult  position;  in  the  agonies  of  death  on  tlie  field  of  battle,  or  curvetting 
under  the  light  hand  of  a  noble  lady;  tearing  through  brake  and  briar,  leaping  hedge  and 
ditch  in  pursuit  of  the  stag,  or  sleepily  drawing  a  rude  waggon — tiie  representation  is  always 
given  in  a  manner  unsur[)assed  by  any  artist  of  his  day,  indead  with  a  fidelity  to  nature  that 
has  never  been  equalled.  In  modern  times  we  may  boast  of  many  excellent  limners  of 
horses,  but  few  possess  so  perfect  a  knowledge  of  the  disposition  and  habits  of  the  animal, 
of  the  peculiarities  of  his  movements,  and  his  graceful  action  when  not  governed  by  his 
rider — few,  we  maintain  have  attained  the  intimate  knowledge  of  the  anim;d  ;ipparent  in  the 
pictures  of  Wouverman.  He  endeavours  to  endow  his  favourite  with — why  should  we  not 
be  allowed  the  use  of  the  term? — individuality.  Our  modern  painters  in  most  cases  attend 
only  to  the  exterior,  and  are  content  to  give  them  the  stereotyped  expression  of  courage, 
fear,  &c.  They  only  view  the  elegant  English-Arabian  steed  which  they  pm-pose  painting, 
but  Wouverman  knows  them  not  merely  in  the  capacity  of  jockey  or  horse-dealer;  we  may 
compare  him  witli  an  Arab  who,  when  his  horse  was  a  colt,  used  to  carry  him  on  his  back, 
feed  him  from  the  palm  of  his  hand,  and,  by  night,  made  the  fianks  of  the  animal  his  pillow. 

This  master  equally  excels,  fo  say  nothing  about  the  correctness  of  drawing,  when  he 
places  his  horses  in  the  most  difficult  attitudes,  whether  he  presents  a  full  front  or,  vice  ve7-s(i, 
to  the  view  of  the  belioldcr.  AVhat  a  master-piece  is  the  picture  representing  a  horseman 
with  two  fishermen,  an  old  woman  and  a  child  on  the  strand,  and  a  lady — -waving  a  fan  of  heron's 


120  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

feathers  to  protect  her  delicate  complexion  from  the  rays  of  the  sun — mounted  on  a  white 
horse!  The  hinder  part  of  the  horse  only,  and  a  back  view,  with  the  heels  of  the  rider,  are 
to  be  seen;  and  yet  with  what  singular  fidelity  is  this  introduced! 

The  masterly  representation  of  horses  is  only  one  of  the  many  beauties  of  Wouwer- 
man.  His  compositions  exhibit  extraordinary  facility  in  their  treatment,  are  equally  unaffected 
as  pleasing,  and  evince  the  thorough  power  of  the  painter  over  the  suliject  which  he  has 
conveyed  to  his  canvas. 

We  view  Wouwerman's  pictures  with  a  more  than  common  interest.  It  requires  no 
very  great  effort  of  imagination  to  perceive  that  they  contain  much  more  than  can  be  re- 
cognized by  a  merely  superficial  glance.  Let  us  pursue  a  closer  examination,  and  with  an 
unprejudiced  eye  look  out  for  the  contents  of  the  piece.  We  shall  presently  find  that  we 
have  before  us  a  tale  of  romance ;  and  the  more  we  indulge  in  a  love  for  art,  the  longer  we 
contemplate  the  subject  before  us,  the  greater  will  be  our  satisfaction,  for  by  these  means  we 
shall  eventually  comprehend  the  true  feeling  of  the  painter,  and  gain  a  key  to  the  story  which 
he  intended  to  transmit. 

Wouwerman's  forte  was  the  genre.  To  all  appearance  he  never  gave  himself  the  least 
trouble;  he  does  not  seem  to  have  considered  for  a  moment  where  he  should  place  his 
figures.  Still  how  exquisitely  are  his  groups  arranged!  In  his  more  simple  compositions  we 
are  sometimes  apt  to  fancy  that  we  perceive  a  void,  an  enticing  empty  space  that  we  should 
like  to  fill  up  to  correspond  with  the  other  parts  of  the  picture.  We  shall  find  this  out  on  a 
nearer  examination. 

We  now  come  to  the  point;  we  take  our  pencil  and  begin  in  right-earnest  to  copy 
and  to  fill  up  the  space,  observing  the  feeling  of  the  composition.  We  shall  certainly  destroy 
the  keeping  of  the  picture  in  the  same  ratio  as  we  should  spoil  the  strain  of  a  great  poet,  if, 
instead  of  giving  the  right  and  appropriate  word  which  we  have  forgotten,  we  substitute  one 
of  our  own  choosing.  Wouwermnn  understood  his  art  and  that  which  he  apparently  left 
out  tended  to  heighten  the  characteristic  of  his  scene. 

In  the  harmonious  treatment  of  his  subjects  this  master  is  always  held  up  as  a  pattern. 
He  possessed  the  art  of  aerial  perspective  in  a  very  eminent  degree.  In  his  earher  pro- 
ductions he  worked  up  his  landscape,  so  that  the  figures  ceded  their  value  to  it.  In  these 
pictures  the  colours  of  the  groups  were  not  finely  localized.  At  a  later  period,  however,  he 
began  to  raise  his  groups  of  figures  to  greater  importance,  to  which  the  landscape  yielded. 
AVe  here  discover  rich  golden  tints,  or,  as  he  loved  at  a  still  later  period,  a  silvery  autumnal 
tone,  developing  the  finest  balance  between  light  and  shade.  The  keeping  in  the  distant 
background  is  charmingly  treated.  The  evaporation  of  the  tints  is  so  delicately  managed 
that  they  remind  us  of  Claude  Lorrain. 

We  very  rarely  find  in  Wouwerman's  productions  that  the  figures  sink  to  mere 
auxiliaries.  The  groups  of  figures  have  always  a  prominent  action;  they  are  generally  full 
of  meaning,  and  more  animated  than  those  of  Berghem's,  although  in  the  treatment  of  back- 
grounds there  is  a  striking  resemblance.  A  certain  few  of  Wouwerman's  pictures  form  an 
exception  to  the  general  rule,  where  the  efficacy  of  the  figures  is  intentionally  reduced  that 
they  may  shew  out  by  the  power  of  colour.  "The  Mountain  Koad"  is  precisely  one  of  these 
pieces.  Instead  of  the  homely  copse,  rank  grass  is  spread  over  the  sandy  hills.  All  is 
barren  and  waste.    The  sky  scarcely  finds  a  suitable  place  in  the  pool  of  water  wherein  to 


.,^.^S^  t_.yH^^niT^aciie^m.cA<yii .  <L>^ney  J^-i^^^ZiV^^na^-cyUa^i^ 


THE    DRINKING    BOUT,    AFTEK    JAN    M.    MOLENAEK.  121 

reflect  itself.  The  sky  and  the  earth  are  in  deep  contrast.  Above  are  rich  effects  of  light, 
which  but  ill  concert  with  the  hilly  waste  beneath.  The  perspective  reaches  a  great  distance, 
but  the  mind  has  nothing  to  dwell  upon  in  this  secluded  landscape. 

The  "  Hiding  School,"  in  the  BelvcdcTe  Gallery,  is  a  ])icture  of  quite  a  different  charaeter. 
It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  simple  from  the  pencil  of  Wouwerman,  but  may  be  classed 
amongst  his  best  productions.  The  Liechtenstein  Gallery  boasts  also  of  having  on  its  walls 
one  of  the  best  pictuj-es  of  this  painter;  it  represents  an  attack  of  robbers.  In  the  Dresden 
Gallery  there  are  no  less  then  fifty  five  of  Wouwerman's  finest  works;  the  Hermitage  in 
St.  Petersburg  contained  fifty,  but  a  doubt  exists  as  to  their  being  all  genuine.  We  find  but 
few  in  our  National  Gallery,  though  there  is  a  sprinkling  of  them  in  several  private  col- 
lections. The  productiveness  of  this  painter  was  so  extraordinary,  that  he  is  almost  always 
represented  in  large  collections  of  pictures.     Whatever  he  produced  was  excellent. 

Wouweruian  died  in  his  native  city  Haarlem  in  the  year  1668,  forty  eight  years  of  age. 


THE  DRINKING  BOUT, 


AFTER 

JAN  M.  MOLENAEE. 


There'  are  three  Dutch  painters  of  the  name  of  Molenaer:  Neel  de  Scheeler,  (nick- 
named Squint-eyed),  who  was  born  in  the  year  1540;  Nicholas,  orKlaas,  whose  career  is  un- 
known, and  Jan  Mienze  Molenaer,  of  whom  we  know  nothing,  but  suppose  him  to  have  been 
the  father  of  Jan  Klaas.  All  three  artists  painted  pictures  of  boors,  the  two  first,  however, 
produced  also  landscapes. 

Jan  Mienze  painted  scenes  from  life  in  low  class  taverns,  and  his  forte  seems  to  have 
been  the  portrayal  of  character  of  the  lowest  order  of  society.  He  sometimes  reminds  us  of 
Adrian  vanOstade;  the  other  two  Molenaers  painted  somewhat  after  the  manner  of  Brouwer 
and  Bega. 

This  painter  was  fully  capable  of  giving  a  lively,  characteristic  expression  to  his 
figures.  He  is  occasionally  extravagant  in  his  scenes  of  comicality,  indeed  they  border  on 
the  grimace;  he  had  an  active  perception  in  his  way  and  wrought  his  pictures  to  a  tolerable 
degree  of  perfection.  Convivial  scenes,  where  unbridled  mirth  held  its  sway,  were  the  favorite 
productions  of  his  pencil. 

Jan  M.  Molenaer  flourished,  as  nearly  as  can  be  ascertained,  in  the  intermediate  years 
of  1641— 1659. 


Qalleries  of  Vienna 


122  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

THE  LISTENER, 


AFTER 

PAOLO  CAGLIARI. 


A  blooming  young  woman  of  voluptuous  form  has  risen  in  the  stillness  of  the  night 
to  give  her  lover  a  rendezvous.  Her  soft  auburn  hair  falls  in  heavy  tresses;  her  dress  of  rich 
brocade  hangs  loosely  and  partly  covers  her  bosom.  She  is  standing  on  a  balcony  and  looks 
round  on  the  Lagoon,  gently  flowing  in  the  silence  of  night.  Full  of  joyful  agitation  and 
desire  to  meet  her  lover,  she  looks  eagerly  towards  us,  and  raises  the  lock  of  hair  from  her 
ear  that  she  may  listen  to  the  stroke  of  oars  in  the  distance.  As  the  god  of  love  tarries  by 
her  side,  she  may  feel  certain  of  the  fulfilment  of  her  wishes. 

Paolo  Cagliari  painted  but  few  such  simple  subjects  as  this.  It  shews,  however,  the 
stamp  of  peculiarity  in  this  master.  The  charactei-istic  is  somewhat  undefined;  the  intro- 
duction of  light,  and  the  colouring  of  the  picture  shew  an  atter'-on  to  harmony  for  which 
this  painter  was  so  distinguished. 


THE  INTERRUPTED  GAMESTER 


AFTFR 

THEODOR  ROMBOUTS. 


How  frequently  does  the  renown  of  a  painter  depend  upon  circumstances !  There  are 
hundreds  of  very  ordinary  painters  whose  names  have  found  their  way  into  after  ages,  while 
many  of  their  contemporaries  produced  pictures  of  great  merit,  deserving  to  be  handed  down 
to  posterity,  but  whose  names  after  a  short  space  of  time  seemed  destined  to  sink  into  ob- 
livion. It  does  not  always  follow  that  an  artist,  because  he  has  produced  many  and  fine 
works,  shall  acquire  the  fame  for  which  he  has  striven,  and  who  with  the  hope  of  attaining  it 
has  devoted  his  best  energies;  for  we  often  meet  with  painters  whose  names  are  well  known 
in  the  history  of  art,  and  even  to  many  persons  wholly  unconnected  with  it,  who  neither 
produced  many  pictures,  nor  possessed  talent  above  the  common  standard. 

It  frequently  occurs  that  an  artist  is  not  heard  of  again,  because  he  disdains  to  follow 
in  the  general  train  of  that  master  who  for  a  whole  period  leads  the  taste  in  art.  Others 
there  are  who  pursue  the  course  cut  out  for  them,  but  whose  pictures  sink  into  insigni- 
Ecance  when  placed  beside  those  of  their  more  gifted  cotemporaries.  Again,  there  are  others 
who  secure  to  themselves  celebrity  through  deviating,  and,  in  fact,  cutting  out  a  walk  for 
themselves,  and,  though  endowed  with  but  moderate  abilities,  manage  to  produce  a  light  and 
attractive  picture.  These  last  are  frequently  favoured  by  Fortune,  who,  while  showering-  her 
gifts,  never  considers  the  why  or  the  wherefore. 

Theodor  Rombouts  is  one  of  those  unfortimate  painters,  who,  notwithstanding  their 
merits,  have  met  only  with   neglect  and   enjoyed  no  reputation.     Who  knows  anything  ot 


.Sii^^^  .J^JaMi/£>4^^k. .  qJ^-  .^Z^j^/^et< 


THE    INTEKUUPTED    GAMESTER,    AFTER    THEODOR    ROMBOUTS.  123 

Rombouts;  who  ever  mentions  his  name?  And  yet  this  master  was  bold  enough  to  enter  the 
lists  with  the  Titan,  Kubens. 

Rombouts  possessed  a  power  of  defining  character  strongly  reminding  us  of  the  best 
figures  of  Michel  Angelo,  da  Caravaggio,  and  we  venture  to  add  that  his  drawing  was  more 
correct  than  that  of  the  great  Italian  master.  His  colouring  is  bold  and  brilliant,  his  hghts 
highly  effective,  and  his  blending  of  light  and  shade  approaches  perfection.  Rombouts'  figures 
are  full  of  animation,  admirably  expressive  of  the  passions — and  this  painter,  with  all  liis 
endowments,  continued  in  obscurity,  a  star  which  became  invisible  when  the  sun  of  Ruben's 
rose  and  extinguished  the  light  of  the  minor  luminaries. 

While  a  scholar  of  Abraham  Jansens,  Rombouts  was  taught  to  observe  great  accu- 
racy in  drawing  and  very  careful  colouring.  Jansen  depended  upon  his  portrait  painting. 
This  feeling  for  correct  copying  is  very  perceptible  in  the  heads  of  Rombouts;  most  of  them 
are  endowed  with  certain  characteristic  features  which  are  not  altogether  appropriate,  nor 
necessary  to  the  subject  of  his  picture. 

Rombovits  acquired  his  efficacious  and  correct  introduction  of  light  from  his  master  Jan- 
sens, who, — nothing  coming  amiss  to  him, — cleverly  painted  scenes  of  caverns  &c.,  into  which 
he  introduced  powerful  effects  of  light.  The  jealous  disposition  of  Jansens  never  suffered 
the  scholar  to  apply  his  talents  to  anything  great,  but  kept  him  employed  on  portraits  and 
genre  pieces.  The  narrow  sphere  in  which  Rombouts  moved  seems  to  have  been  a  hindrance, 
to  his  aspiration  to  greatness. 

Our  painter  had  become  an  experienced  artist  before  he  went  to  Italy,  but  there 
he  appeared  to  disadvantage,  as  the  great  master, — whom,  at  a  later  period,"  he  had  the  courage 
to  oppose, — Rubens,  was  there,  taking  the  lead  of  all  the  masters  of  the  Hespei'ian  peninsula. 
Rombouts,  who  had  arrived  at  the  full  manly  age,  scarcely  conserved  such  a  degree  of  mental 
flexibility  as  to  devote  himself  entirely  to  the  style  of  the  Italian  heroes  of  art ;  while  Rubens, 
in  all  the  vigour  of  youth,  enjoyed  that  period,  when  the  mind  is  open  to  the  impression  of 
the  sublime  and  beautiful. 

Of  all  Italian  masters,  imitated  by  Rombouts,  it  was  particularly  Tintoretto  who  excited 
the  emulation  of  the  Netherlander.  Rombouts  possesses  traits  of  the  same  powerful 
action  as  Tintoretto,  is  capable  of  introducing  a  similar  glow  of  colour  in  the  breadths 
of  light,  and  is  not  behind  him  in  his  depths  of  shadow.  During  the  time  that  Rombouts 
was  engaged  at  the  court  of  Tuscany,  he  painted  subjects  from  sacred  history,  taking  Tizian 
and  Giorgione  as  his  types.  One  of  these  pieces,  known  from  the  engraving  after  the  picture 
representing  the  Holy  Family  with  Elizabeth  and  John  in  a  landscape,  exhil)its  no  peculiar 
excellence  in  the  conception  of  the  composition;  it  is  cold  and  timidly  treated. 

The  grouping  of  this  master,  as  a  general  rule,  is  somewhat  stiff  and  affected;  his 
figures  appear  as  if  they  had  all  been  separately  drawn,  and  afterwards  placed  together.  The 
natural  impulse,  which  binds  the  movement  of  all  figures  in  a  united  mass,  is  wanting. 
While  each  figure  seems  to  carry  an  unusual  degree  of  weight  in  itself,  the  tout  ensemble 
is  materially  weakened.  He  has  not,  like  Rubens,  the  power  of  imparting  substantiality  at 
one  touch.  There  is  an  appearance  of  "elaboration."  What  he  presents  is  effected  only 
after  many  a  trial  has  been  made,  many  a  bit  scraped  out.  The  compositions  of  Rubens  in- 
dicate, by  their  external  appearance,  that  the  master  had,  by  an  instinctive  power,  at  once 
formed  his  design,  from  which  he  never  deviated. 


t 


"!»' 


124  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

Rubens,  in  his  pictures,  makes  the  outward  forms  of  nature  agree  with  his  compo- 
sition, while  in  the  works  of  Rombouts  we  find  that  the  composition  is  worked  up  to  imitate 
nature.  The  latter  is  never  more  happy  than  in  those  pictures  where  this  aim  predo- 
minates. His  forte  however  is  the  genre,  which  he  treats  sometimes  in  a  style  similar  to 
that  of  Caravaggio.  If  a  comparison  be  made  between  the  two  masters,  the  importance  of 
intellectual  action  would  preponderate  on  the  side  of  the  Italian  naturalist. 

When  Rombouts  returned  to  the  Netherlands,  in  his  native  place,  Antwerp,  he  found 
Rubens  in  the  prime  of  life  and  in  the  height  of  his  fame.  It  certainly  shewed  no  proof  of 
a  weak,  mean  spirit  when  Rombouts  attacked  so  powerful  a  genius  as  Rubens.  He  was 
edged  on  by  his  former  master,  Abraham  Jansens,  who  had  become  frantic  at  the  brilliant 
success  which  attended  the  eiforts  of  Rubens.  Jansens,  a  respectable  painter  and  possessed 
of  some  merit,  who  painted  historical  subjects  full  of  figures  and  sparkling  with  colour,  had  in 
vain  challenged  Rubens:  in  open  contest  to  paint  a  picture  with  him.  Rubens  contented  him- 
self with  replying,  that  he  might  follow  the  plan  which  he  (Rubens)  had  long  adopted:  sub- 
mit his  pictures  to  the  opinion  of  the  whole  world,  as  none  could  in  any  way  operate  to 
lower  the  price  he  had  set  upcfh  them. 

No  sooner  had  Rombouts  arrived  in  Antwerp  than  Jansens  thought  he  had  found  the 
man  who  would  be  able  to  rival  Rubens  in  the  "antique  style,"  in  which  he  himself  was 
totally  inefficient.  He  got  Rombouts  the  commission  to  paint  two  pictures  for  the  saloon  in 
the  'Court  of  Justice'  in  Ghent.  This  commission  was  originally  intended  for  Rubens,  who 
vokmtarily  withdrew  from  his  agreement,  in  favour  of  a  younger  artist. 

Rombouts  produced  "Isaac's  Offering"  and  a  "Themis,"  and  was,  especially  in  the 
former,  so  haj)py,  that  Rubens  himself  acknowledged  his  ability,  the  beauty  of  the  com- 
position, and  the  fine  colouring.  Rombouts  and  Jansens,  together  with  their  party,  con- 
sidered themselves  as  victors  over  Rubens,  and  went  about  inveighing  against  the  great 
master,  "who  could  do  nothing  and  understand  nothing  but  how  to  dispose  of  the  pictures 
of  his  half  starved  scholars,  at  an  enormous  price,  for  his  own  advantage."  Rubens  answered 
this  calumny  by  "The  Descent  from  the  Cross,"  on  which  picture  not  one  of  his  scholars  was 
permitted  to  work.  After  the  exhibition  of  this  great  master  piece,  no  one  ever  heard 
anything  more    of   Rombouts;   he   might    as    well    have    ceased  to  exist. 

In  all  probability  our  painter  was  drawn  into  the  debaucheries  resorted  to  by  Abraham 
Jansens,  occasioned  by  the  behaviour  of  his  beautiful  but  disorderly  wife.  Rombouts  was 
somewhat  above  forty  years  when  he  died.  His  death  took  place  in  the  same  year  with 
Rubens— 1640. 

"The  interrupted  Gamester"  of  Rombouts'  is  a  fine  masterly  production.  Nothing  can 
be  more  naturaHy  depicted  than  the  countenances  of  the  confused  soldiers,  who,  surprized, 
stare  angrily  and  disdainfully  at  the  two  intruders  who  interrupt  the  players  just  as  the 
game  is  beginning  to  grow  interesting.  A  bald-headed  old  man  with  long  white  beard,  ac- 
companied by  a  young  woman,  stand  before  the  soldiers,  who  seem  half  disposed  to  draw 
their  swords  and  frighten  them  both  out  of  the  place.  Without  deigning  to  notice  the 
rascals,  the  venerable  old  man  directs  a  searching  look  at  a  youth,  who,  perplexed,  turns 
his  face  from  the  table.  It  is  him  that  the  old  man  lias  come  to  rescue  from  the  den 
of  vice. 


V 


\:    ; 

^-■mm 

f 

fiWr^iPfl"'' 

\        ' 

CATTLE,  AFTER  ALBERT  CUYP.  125 

According  to  another  explanation  the  officer,  with  the  feather  in  his  cap,  is  the  hunhand 
of  the  woman,  who,  in  order  to  give  force  to  her  admonition,  is  accompanied  by  the  father 
of  the  officer.  It  is  possihle  that  this  explanation  of  the  picture  may  somewhat  deviate  from 
the  real  one, — if  so  it  shews  that  the  purpose  which  connects  the  groups  is  not  sufficiently  defined. 


CATTLE, 

•     AFTER 

ALBERT  CCYP. 


Cuyp's  pictures  are  especially  to  be  found  in  England,  and  they  are  chiefly  prized 
by  English  amateurs  and  critics.  In  this  country  Cuyp  is  considered  one  of  the  most  genu- 
ine scholars  of  nature  who,  with  Claude  Lorrain  and  Paul  Potter,  must  be  held  up  as  an 
example  for  simplicity,  correctness,  and  natural  effect. 

Unquestionably  Cuyp  exhibits  these  properties  in  most  of  his  highly  finished  pictures; 
at  the  same  time  the  opinions  of  the  English  critics,  taken  altogether,  are  somewhat  too 
flattering  on  the  pictures  of  this  master.  Cuyp's  chief  pieces  consist  of  landscapes  with 
rivers  or  canals,  open  meadows  in  which  he  introduces  cattle  grazing  or  reposing.  These  ob- 
jects are  best  calculated  to  display  the  powers  of  this  painter,  but  when  he  attempts  to 
portray  scenes,  of  a  higher  character  it  is  very  rarely  that  he  succeeds.  His  battle  pieces 
betray  a  weakness  of  drawing  in  the  animated  figures  on  the  field.  Cuyp  painted  but  few- 
historical  pictures;  they  are  cold  and  formal;  his  portraits  develop  no  intellectual  feeling, 
and  are  pleasing  only  for  their  good  colouring.  His  winter  landscapes,  however,  which  are 
scarcely  to  be  distinguished  from  those  of  Adrian  van  der  Velde,  are  excellent.  The  latter 
master  perha])s  displayed  greater  variety  in  his  compositions. 

Cuyp  loved  to  plan  his  compositions  upon  a  diagonal  line.  He  seems  to  have  run  a 
line  from  the  upper  part  or  corner  of  the  canvas  on  one  side,  to  the  lower  part  of  the  op- 
posite side,  in  order  to  fill  up  one  half  the  space  with  his  figures,  and  to  reserve  the  re- 
mainder for  his  horizon.  He  places  the  eye  of  the  beholder  on  a  level  with  the  horizon, 
thereby  gaining  in  his  distances,  which  he  shews  in  the  most  delicate  tones,  while  the  fore- 
grounds bear  a  very  substantial  appearance,  and  the  figures  which  he  introduces,  or  some  of 
them  at  least,  stand  out  in  bold  relief  from  the  light  sky.  The  shadows  run  into  each  other 
mostly  in  the  direction  of  the  perspective  lines.  In  order  to  work  out  an  even  balance  be- 
tween the  heavy  and  light  portions  of  the  picture,  he  takes  care  to  introduce  some  inferior 
objects  into  the  latter,  and,  although  thejf  are  unimportant  in  themselves,  they  tend  greatly, 
by  being  kept  in  soft  middle  tint,  and  by  that  means  acquiring  a  certain  power,  to  enhance 
the  importance  of  the  light  side  of  the  picture.  In  the  heavy  part  he  very  cleverly  contrives 
to  bring  in  separate  lights  and  colours,  which  correspond  with  the  other  half  of  the  diagonal 
section.  A  more  simple  method  than  this  cannot  be  found  to  teach  the  student  the  first 
principles  of  regular  composition. 

This  mathematical  element  with  its  combinations,  which  may  be  theoretically  acquired, 


126  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

corresponds  so  fully  with  the  English  character,  that  it  is  not  at  all  surprizing,  that  Cuyp 
should  be  held  up  as  a  master  worthy  of  being  adopted  as  a  model  by  the  students  of  paint- 
ing in  this  country. 

However  simple  most  of  the  designs  of  Cuyp's  pictures,  they  are  always  rich  in  effect. 
This  is  produced  by  the  skilful  introduction  of  lights  and  sufficiently  nervous  touches  of 
colouring.  Whei-e  he  displays  his  high  lights  and  half-tints,  the  shadows  of  his  figures — or 
whatever  else  he  places  in  the  picture — are  intensely  deep.  Warm  and  cold  masses  of  colour 
are  distiibuted  liberally  throughout,  and  harmonize  perfectly  with  the  single  boats  or  other 
objects,  which  are  elevated  above  the  horizon  and  kept  in  middle  tone.  Althougli  Cuyp's  tints 
are  rather  delicate  than  bold,  still  he  works  up.  his  subjects  so  that  they  acquire  a  powerful 
eifect.  And  though  he  seldom  arranges  his  light  that  it  shall  act  upon  the  intermediate  parts 
or  middle-grounds,  his  immediate  fore-grounds  are  remarkable  for  their  intensely  deep  shado>vs. 

Extraordinary  or  very  refined  feeling,  or  fascinating  or  sentimental  beauties,  are  not 
to  be  discovered  in  Cuyp's  works.  He  does  not  possess  the  pastoral  enthusiasm  of  Claude 
Lorrain,  the  profuse  conceptions  of  Ruisdael,  or  the  abstracted  melancholy  of  Hobbema. 
Cuyp  never  has  any  thing  further  than  a  distinct  substantial  object  in  view.  He  is  not  an 
artist  who  conceals  the  secrets  of  his  mind  in  his  pictures. 

Cuyp's  pictures  have  always  been  highly  prized,  and  brought  enormous  prices  on  all 
occasions  when  they  have  changed  hands,  and  they  are  much  sought  at  the  present  day.  It 
has  already  been  observed  that  they  are  more  especially  valued  in  England,  and  this  country 
contains  the  greatest  number  of  his  productions.  This  painter  was  born  in  Dortreeht,  1606, 
and,  judging  from  various  circumstances,  he  must  have  been  an  old  man  when  he  died. 


ST.  KATHERINE, 

AFTER 

HUYBRECHT  VAN  EYCK. 


When  the  brothers  van  Eyck  are  mentioned  it  is  generally  understood  that  Jan 
van  Eyck  is  the  person  especially  alluded  to.  He  was  the  most  genial  of  the  two  it  will  be  admitted, 
and  in  tliose  pictures  where  they  worked  together  the  well  grounded  belief  is  that  the  lion's 
share  always  fell  to  him.  The  brothers  were  evidently  both  of  an  enquiring  mind  which  , 
was  well  rewarded,  and  much  has  been  written  on  the  subject.  What  has  been  written 
is  more  in  reference  to  the  discovery  they  made  relfttive  to  painting  in  oil,  than  to  the  value 
of  their  works  as  painters.  To  Huybrecht,  or  Hubert,  no  great  praise  is  usually  awarded; 
he  is  looked  upon  as  holding  a  subordinate  rank  as  an  artist. 

If,  however,  we  take  for  granted,  that  the  few  pictures  by  Huybrecht  existent  in  our 
times  were  really  painted  by  himself,  we  may  confidently  pronounce  him,  both  as  regards  his- 
perccptions  and  style  of  painting,  to  be  on  an  equality  with  his  brother  Jan.  It  would  re- 
quire more  than  an  usual  degree  of  acuteness  to  point  out  any  distinguishing  feature,  in  the 


i/a^u/-  ,^yla.<!i4cUMi€<         .=:..^ye^y^^glM^e'''..>'ia^i^^z■u^■^■; 


cc^fe-'^ 


<f^^y 


^  /r/^^yn^. 


Pn)L'l<  T)  V' 


ST.  KATHERINE,  AFTER  HLBKECHT  VAN  EYCK.  127 

treatment  of  a  picture,  l)et\vecii  tlie.se  two  masters.  It  has  been  admitted  that  Huybrecht's 
productions  wear  more  of  a  brownish  tone,  especially  in  the  carnation,  than  is  found  in  the 
light  colours  of  his  younger  brother.  But  Jan  had  not  always  the  power  over  colour,  and  more 
particularly  docs  this  prove  itself  in  some  of  his  early  oil  pictures.  Tlie  want  of  brilliancy 
in  Huybrecht's  pictures  may  reasonably  be  attributed  to  his  imperfect  knowledge  in  the 
mixing  of  his  colours,  and  the  consequent  difficulties  he  had  to  contend  against  at  that  pe- 
riod. In  the  chief  joint  productions  of  the  brothers  no  difference  in  the  treatment  can  be 
discovered,  though  frequently  they  worked  independentlj'  of  each  other. 

The  ambiguity,  which  hangs  over  the  private  career  of  these  two  men,  has  baffled  all 
our  endeavours  at  acquiring,  and  submitting  to  our  readers  any  account  which  might  be  even  par- 
tially relied  on.  They  seem  to  have  co-operated  spontaneous!)',  as  though  governed  by  one 
spirit.  Their  only  sister  Margarethe,  possessed  of  a  refined  mind  and  fertile  imagination,  de- 
voted herself  to  the  study  of  painting  and  attained  considerable  knowledge  of  the  art. 

Huybrecht  can  lay  claim  to  very  few  pictures  entirely  worked  up  by  his  own  hand, 
and  even  these  in  their  propei'ties  of  having  been  painted  by  himself  alone  are  disputed.  We 
mention  one  grand  conception  of  the  "Archangel  Michael,  with  the  scales,"  probably  a  part  of 
a  large  picture,  on  which  the  day  of  judgment  was  represented.  In  Ghent  may  be  seen  the 
"Adoration  of  the  Three  Kings,"'  with  expressive  countenances  and  exquisite  draperies.  The 
Studj  at  Naples  is  said  to  possess  the  picture  of  "St.  Hieronymus"'  by  this  master. 

On  the  walls  of  the  Belvedere  Gallery  in  Vienna  is  a  picture  of  "  St.  Katherine,"  with 
cheerful  landscape,  to  which  Huybrecht's  name  is  affixed.  There  is  something  sweetly  femi- 
nine, a  childish  innocence  almost,  in  the  countenance  of  the  female  martyr.  The  face  is  kept 
in  warm  middle  tint,  while  a  gleam  of  light  shines  down  upon  her  forehead.  This  effect  adds 
greatly  to  the  charm  and  sublimity  of  the  representation.  The  upper  part  of  the  figure  and 
the  arms  are  somewhat  slender,  and  at  the  same  time  have  an  appearance  of  shortness.  The 
drapery  is  highly  picturesque,  rich,  but  not  overladen  with  ornament,  nor  confused.  The 
cloak  reaches  to  the  ground,  forming  a  sort  of  train  with  many  crisp  folds,  and  contrasting 
with  the  simple  folds  in  the  other  parts  of  the  drapery.  The  virgin  holds  in  her  right  hand 
the  notched  two  edged  sword,  with  the  point  resting  on  the  ground  and  partly  concealed  by 
the  drapery.  At  her  feet  lie  the  spoke  of  a  wheel,  and  the  lustrous  crown  of  her  martyrdom. 


V  I  0  L  A  N  T  E, 

AFTES 

fALMA  THE  ELDER. 


Giovanni  Bellini,  better  known  by  the  name  of  Giambellini,  was  at  the  head  of  the 
Venetian  school.  With  him  the  art  of  painting  in  oil  began  its  development ;  it  became  known 
in  Venice  through  the  works  of  the  Netherlanders,  and  afterwards  through  the  productions 
of  Antonello  of  Messina.    The  vapid  superficial  style  by  degrees  went  out  of  fashion,  and 


128  THE  GALLERIES  UF  VIENNA. 

with  it  the  rigidity  of  conception,  the  hard  outlines,  and  the  want  of  relief  which  appertained 
to  the  Byzantine  style.  A  freedom  of  conception,  a  stricter  observance  of  natural  ap- 
pearances, which  had  already  gained  ground  in  Florence  and  Pisa,  were  not  practised  in 
Venice  till  the  new  technics  of  oil  painting  had  wholly  superseded  the  insipid,  absurd  typical 
style.  The  Bellinis,  and  particularly  Gian,  endowed  their  works  with  a  legitimate  bearing  of 
colour,  sufficiently  iiarmonized  to  shew  that  they  had  taken  nature  herself,  in  all  her  beauty, 
as  a  pattern. 

In  Giambellini's  pictures,  after  he  had  adopted  oil  jiainting,  we  recognize  a  portrait- 
like appearance  in  all  the  heads  of  his  figures.  As  far  as  the  draperies  are  concerned  he 
retained  much  of  the  old  style,  and  by  degrees  introduced  the  costume  of  his  time  into  his 
pieces.  For  the  portrayal  of  naked  figures  Bellini's  Bacchanal  compositions  may  serve  as  a 
standard.  They  do  not,  like  those  of  the  Florentine  painters,  smack  of  the  antique ;  the 
figures  appear  rather  to  have  been  taken  from  life.  The  Florentines  had  not  yet  departed 
from  the  sculpture-like  formal  style,  but  Bellini  had  commenced  a  new  school  of  painting. 
He  directed  his  attention  to  the  study  of  nature,  and  had  already  acquired  considerable 
knowledge;  for  we  find  his  figures  accompanied  by  landscape,  the  detail  of  which  is  ap- 
propriate, unobtrusive,  and  materially  conduces  to  the  value  of  the  figures.  The  magnificence 
of  the  sun's  rays  while  playing  on  the  dark  forest  trees,  the  glistering  of  the  ruffled  waters, 
the  fidelity  with  which  they  were  represented  by  this  master,  might  well  give  rise  to  the 
sonnet,  the  burthen  of  w  hich  was  something  to  the  effect,  that  the  divine  Bellini  had  restored 
nature  to  its  primitive  beauty  while  adoring  the  Creator. 

The  most  celebrated  Venetian  masters  studied  in  the  school  of  Bellini:  Giorgione,  Ti- 
zian,.  Ricco  Marconi,  Sebastiano  del  Piombo,  Bonifazio  Veneziano,  Lorenzo  Lotto — who 
was  inclined  to  the  Florentine  style  of  painting — Francesco  Vercelli,  the  brother  of  Tizian, 
and  the  elder  Palma. 

Giacopo  Palma,  in  order  to  distinguish  him  iiom  a  scholar  of  Tizian's  bearing  the 
same  name,  was  called  "il  vecchio"  (the  elder).  In  his  early  productions  he  was  a  close  imi- 
tator of  Bellini,  but  he  struggled  against  the  last  remains  of  conventional  stiffness  and  man- 
nerism, taking  his  colleagues  Giorgione  and  Tizian  as  his  models.  The  two  last  named 
masters  had  already  beaten  their  way  and  were  fast  gaining  renown. 

Giacopo  Palma  was  not  gifted  with  the  greatness  of  conception  evinced  by  Barba- 
relli,  and  was  far  behind  him  in  rich  glow  of  colour.  Tizian  came  nearer  to  the  elder  Palma, 
if  we  regard  his  brilliant  style  of  colouring  only.  Palma  seems  weak  in  invention;  to  make 
up  for  this,  however,  he  possesses  a  peculiar  feeling  for  the  delineation  of  the  lovely  and  the 
fascinating.  On  these  points  he  is  remarkably  happy;  he  does  ample  justice  to  them,  he 
never  falls  into  affectation,  nor  exceeds  the  bounds  of  propriety. 

Tizian  in  his  pictures  discovers  whatever  grace  the  figures  may  have  possessed  in 
themselves.  This  master  is  always  more  grand  than  graceful,  and  the  emotions  of  the  mind, 
traceable  to  the  influence  of  grace,  are,- in  a  great  number  of  his  works,  left  altogether  un- 
depicted.  In  Palma's  figures  we  descry  an  endeavour  to  evoke  a  pleasing  vsensitiveness. 
Tizian's  figures,  even  in  his  best  days,  have  something  of  the  antique  about  them;  they  betray 
an  exclusiveness  and  only  appear  for  themselves,  while  Palma's  seem  to  court  the  approbation 
of  the  spectator.  To  effect  this  the  master  introduces  numerous  contingent  traits  irrelevant 
to  the  free  development  of  beauty.    Instead  of  vibrating  on  every  chord  of  our  perception. 


VIOLANTK.    AKl'ER     FALMA     I  UK     Kl.DKK.  )  20 

like  the  fijjures  of  Tizians,  our  sense.«  are  acted  u|)oii  l)y  the  cliarniing  delicacy  of  feeling; 
•Mtli  which  he  imbues  his  pictures.  When  compared  with  Tizian,  Palma  betrays  often  a  weak 
and  indefinite  manner,  both  in  form  and  expression,  and  becomes  inefficient  in  point  of 
])i>wcr. 

Nevertheless,  Palma  the  elder  possesses  certain  beauties.  His  female  figures  and  his 
children's  heads  arc  exquisitely  drawn,  and  charmingly  painted.  The\-  are  evidently  taken 
from  the  life,  and  afterwards,  in  accordance  with  system,  he  throws  into  the  features  certain 
phases,  which  contribute  fo  soften  and  to  render  them  more  charming  and  attractive.  Palma 
is  not  so  free  from  mannerism  in  coloming  as  Tizian.  Indejiendently  of  a  prevailing 
yellowish  hue,  his  colouring  is  highly  etfective  and  charming,  especially  in  the  carnation 
tints.  These  tints  are  laid  on  with  a  remarkably  delicate  feeling:  no  traces  of  the  bru.sh  are 
to  be  discovered  in  the  flesh,  and  yet  it  is  quite  free  from  any  thing  like  a  glassy  appearance. 
The  warm  tints  predominate;  pink  is  chiefly  used  for  the  draperies.  Palma  seems  to  have 
been  irresolute  in  the  treatment  of  his  subjects.  Besides  some  very  feeble  productions,  he 
imitated  the  stj'le  of  Giorgione:  for  instance  in  his  picture  of  "St.  Barbara  in  Santa  Maria 
Formosa,"  ''The  appearance  of  our  Lord,'"  &c.  The  supposition,  that  the  different  treatment 
of  his  pictures  is  to  be  attributed  to  the  several  periods  to  which  they  belong,  is  founded  on 
error,  for  we  frequently  discover  in  these  very  works,  which  he  so  closely  imitated,  that 
pecuHar  insipidity  pervading  many  of  his  productions.  We  must  not  omit  to  mention 
that  Palma  vecchio's  name  is  often  made  use  of,  and  appended  to  pictures  which  he  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of.  Owing  to  this  circumstance,  the  reputation  of  this  master  has  been 
materially  injured,  for  these  surreptitious  productions,  palmed  off  upon  the  unskilled  in  works 
of  art,  will  rarely  bear  comparison  with  the  feeblest  of  Palma's  pictures.  Many  of  Palma's 
latest  works,  more  particularly  of  the  portrait  g^enre,  have  been  attributed  to  Tizian,  and  no 
doubt  there  are  many  extant  which  have  frequently  changed  bands  and  fetched  high  prices 
from  the  presumption  that  they  really  are  from  Tizian's  easel. 

The  Belvedere  Gallery  is  rich  in  the  finest  productions  of  Palma  vecchio.  "The  Holy 
Family'"  in  a  beautifuUv  painted  landscape:  "Maria  and  the  Infant"  surrounded  by  saints; 
"St.  Catherine;"  "The  raising  of  Lazarus,"  &c. 

Violante,  a  portrait  of  the  painter's  daughter,  creates  general  interest.  Palma  fre- 
quently painted  this  charming  being;  still  oftener  is  her  portrait  found  in  the  pictures  of 
Tizian.  Paris  Bordone  also  painted  her  portrait.  Her  light  flowing  hair,  so  rich  in  colour, 
and  the  fullness  of  her  noble  form,  distinguish  her  from  any  other  figures.  Much  cannot  be 
said  for  her  expression  of  countenance. 

The  Liechtenstein  Gallery  has  also  in  its  possession  tlirce  fine  picture-  by  Palma 
vecchio.     The  year  of  his  birth  cannot  now  be  ascertained.     He  died  al)i)Ut  the  year  1580. 


fiallerjeb  of  Vifnn*.  17 


130  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 


THE  DENTIST, 

AFTER  " 

ISAAK  VAN  OSTADE. 

On  the  Continent,  Adrian  v:in  Ostade  is  generally  mentioned  as  the  '"godd,"  in  order 
to  distinguish  him  from  his  brother  Isaak;  from  which  we  necessarily  infer  that  the  latter 
must  be  the  "bad"  Ostade.  With  regard  to  many  of  his  pictures,  this  term  may  be  appli- 
cable, but  it  were  a  great  mistake  to  denounce  all  liis  works  and  declare  him  a  bad  painter. 
The  few  remarks  that  we  purpose  offering  on  this  point  will  perhaps  serve  to  disabuse  the 
prejudiced  minds  of  many  who  have  not  enjoyed  an  opportunity  of  judging  for  them- 
selves. 

Isaak  van  Ostade's  boors  and  rural  scenery  may  fairly  take  their  place  by  the  side 
of  his  brother  Adrian's,  Brouwer's,  Bega's,  and  Craesbeke's  pictures.  Like  these  [)ainters, 
the  faces  of  his  figures  are  excessively  ugly,  but,  in  jjoint  of  expression,  they  are  more  ani- 
mated than  Adrian's,  and  always  more  racy  and  substantial  than  the  dishevelled  heads  of 
Bega.  Adrian  very  rarely  motlifies  these  abnormities  in  his  figures,  while  Isaak  evidently 
strove  to  throw  something  like  expression  into  them;  and,  if  burlesque,  it  at  least  had  the 
effect  of  humanizing  and  imparting  a  degree  of  cheerfulness  to  their  otherwise  unmeaning 
physiognomies.  These  oddities  of  Isaak's  are  frequently  very  comical,  like,  for  instance,  the 
dw^arfish  tioin-e  of  the  servant  to  the  dentist,  who  brings  his  slv-lookinff  sirinniu";  master  a 
large  dish  fidl  of  water. 

We  are  to  imagine  that  it  is  the  intention  of  the  tooth-flrawer  to  extract  as  many  teeth  as 
he  can  from  the  jaw  of  the  sturdy  boor,  no  matter  whether  they  ache  or  not ;  the  m(jre  he  fjet.''  out 
the  more  he  gets  paid.  Two  figures  are  kneeling  iiv  the  side  of  the  patient;  they  re]n'escnt 
his  aliominai)ly  awkward  wife  with  clasped  hands,  upraised  and  imjiioring  heaven  that  her 
husband,  who  is  bawling  vv'ith  all  his  might,  may  not  suffer  death  from  the  painful  operation. 
Near  the  dame  kneels  her  daughter,  as  ugly  a  looking  personage  as  the  mother;  her  face  is 
unmeaning,  but  we  must  suppose  that  she  tacitly  joins  in  with  the  prayer  of  her  parent. 
The  iiead  of  the  figure  in  the  back-ground,  with  the  face  full  of  ironical  laughter,  is  highly 
characteristic.  The  stupid,  grinning  companion  of  the  patient,  leaning  on  his  staff,  is  quite 
after  the  manner  of  Adrian. 

Isaak  van  Ostade  is  inferior  to  his  brother  in  the  careful  adaptation  of  light  and 
shade,  and  likewise  in  the  warm  tones  pervading  th(^  pictures  of  Adrian  in  his  best  days,  but 
quite  equals  him  in  his  lively  conceptions,  and  treatment  of  landscape  scenery.  AMien  Adrian 
represents  his  figures  with  a  clear  sky  over  head  the  light  is  very  indifferently  managed  ;  it 
is  too  concentrated,  it  springs  from  one  side  of  the  picture  and  all  reflection  is  dispensed 
with.  Isaak  has  the  same  fault  in  his  out-of-door  figures ;  he  is  not  able,  like  Rubens,  to 
spread  an  atmosphere  aroiuid  theni,  but  his  harsh  arrangement  of  light  and  shadows 
gives  his  works  an  ajuiearance  of  solidity.  This  master  was  either  not  very  in- 
dustrious, or  not  very  productive;  for  genuine  ))ictures  from  his  easel  are  not  often  to  be 
found.     Many  spurious    works  have  found   their   w;iy   into  the  galleries  of  the  great,   and 


^ 


^J^f!^^<^4^3,.-^<>e^Pze/  =<i^^-Z?2iS!ii£S^3/^;:<^.a 


•.-^cks^Z'e^ 


.   DOMESTIC    SCENE,    AITKK    P.    VAN    SLIN(iKLANI).  131 

the.«c  i'nquently  have  been  attril)Ute<l  to  Isaak  for  the  want  of  a  better  name  to  ap])cnd  to 
flieni.  Many  pictures  likewise  bear  his  name  which  were  executed  by  tlie  schoUirs  of  his 
bri.tlier  A<h'ian. 

Isaak  van  O-tade  was  born  in  Liibcck  in   1(")12. 


DOMESTIC  S(ENE, 


AFTKR 

P.  VAN  SLINGELAND. 

Among  the  numerous  painters  ol  cabinet  pictures  that  Holland  has  produced  Pieter 
van  Slingeland  lays  claim  to  be  ranked  as  one  of  the  fii'st.  He  is  less  cheerful  than  his  master 
(ierhard  Dow — for  none  of  the  jiainters  in  miniature  possess  Dow's  poetic  feeling — nor  doss  he 
equal  Gerhard  Terburg  in  the  rich  expression  of  individual  character, — neither  does  Slingeland 
depict  that  boisterous  chivalric  mirth  and  jocose  humour  peculiar  to  Franz  von  Mieris.  But 
this  painter  possesses  some  rare  excellences. 

One  thing,  which  cannot  fail  to  attract  our  observation,  is  the  peculiar  and  extraordinary 
high  finish.  II' Dow  devoted  several  days  to  the  'portrait"  of  a  broomstick,  so  as  to  render 
it  as  close  a  copy  to  nature  as  it  was  jjossiblc  to  produce,  Slingeland,  as  far  as  patience 
is  concerned,  certainly  rivalled  him,  for,  in  the  family  grouji  of  Weerman — a  picture  in  the 
Louvre — he  worked  four  weeks,  incessantly,  on  the  collars  and  wrist-bands  of  the  boys  alone. 

The  pictures  by  Pieter  van  Slingeland  contain  even  more  elaborately  worked  up  mi- 
nutia  than  those  of  the  other  great  masters  of  the  miniature  class  who  were  such  close 
copyists  of  what  they  saw  in  nature.  He  brought  in  the  merest  ti'ifles  into  his  picture. 
Dow, — by  his  always  choosing  objects  suitable  to  the  piece,  and  arranging  his  lights  so  as  to 
■  play  upon  them,  so  that  they  harmonize  with  each  other  without  interfering  with  the  main 
figures,  together  with  his  management  of  colour, — shewed  an  ai-tist-like  feeling;  whereas 
Slingeland's  lights  seem  to  have  no  governing  power,  and  the  breadths  of  light  and  shadow 
are  broken  up  by  the  domination  of  the  local  colours.  As  a  general  rule,  Slingeland's  per- 
sjtective  is  correct,  as  may  be  seen  in  his  landscape  scenery,  but  his  aerial  perspective  is 
by  no  means  so.  The  consequence  is  that  we  never  find  that  striking  relief,  so  clearly  pre- 
sented in  the  works  of  Terburg  and  Mieris.  Slingeland  approaches  very  nearly  Gal)riel 
Metzu,  but  the  latter  indowed  his  figures  with  more  of  the  spiritual. 

In  his  rejiresentations  of  silk  stuflps,  embroideries,  furs,  carpets,  shining  copper  sauce-, 
pans  &c.,  Slingeland,  if  not  unrivalled,  has  not  been  surpassed  by  any  of  his  country- 
men. He  does  not  give  an  idea  of  any  rajiidly  passing  light ;  his  subjects  are  all  acted' 
upon  by  one  steady,  unvarying  glow  of  light.  Metzu,  on  the  other  hand,  endows  his  pieces 
\\ith  a  more  natural  effect;  his  lights  are  flitting  and  gradually  evanescent.  Although  the 
w'orks  o,f  these  painters,  during  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century,  were  remarkably  si- 
lullar  to  each  other,  the  practised  eye  may  always,  Avhcn  making  a  comparison,  distinguish  a 
niccness  gf  peculiarity  in  the  style  of  painting  of  all  the  Dutcli  masters.    In  the  ])r(^sent  day, 

17* 


132  THE    GALLERIES    OF  VIENNA. 

when  charmed  by  tlie  outward  appearance  of  things,  we  naturally  begin  to  reflect  upon  the 
worth  of  their  inward  contents,  at  the  same  time  we  do  not  deem  it  of  such  vital  importance, 
as  to  have  recourse  to  the  aid  of  a  microscope  iu  examining  the  trifling  variations  of  colours 
and  their  shades,  as  the  Dutch  connoiseurs  of  a  tulip.  It  is  therefore  scarcely  worth  while 
entering  into  a  contest  in  order  to  prove  how  far  Slingeland  differed  from  his  contemporaries-, 
in  regard  to  a  shade  of  colour,  or  how  much  longer  he  devoted  iiimself  unweariedly  to  his 
task  of  producing  a  higher  finish  than  they,  for  the  most  part,  achieved. 

The  "Domestic  Scene,"  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery,  is  one  of  the  most  deservedly  cele- 
brated j)ictures  of  Slingeland's.  Beside  tins  rank  the  "Cook  with  a  Partridge"  in  the 
Bridgewater  collection  in  London,  "The  Lacemaker"  in  Dresden,  and  the  "Tailor's  Work- 
room" in  Munich.  These  four  subjects  may  be  considered  as  the  finest  pictures  of  this 
master. 

Slingeland's  works  are  very  rare,  which  account  for  the  high  prices  they  invariably 
fetch  when  they  change  proprietors.  When  we  consider  the  immense  time  he  was  occupied 
in  painting  a  picture,  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  he  produced  comparatively  few:  but 
taking  into  consideration  the  numbers  of  pictures  by  Mieris,  Dow,  Terburg,  and  others,  like- 
wise painted  with  microscopic  nicety,  we  may  perhaps  be  not  very  far  wrong  in  surmising 
that  iii.niy  works  of  Slingeland  exist  in  the  present  day  which  do  not  bear  his  name. 

In  the  English  private  collections,  pretty  generally  known  to  be  rich  in  surreptitious 
pictures,  the  name  of  Slingeland,  however,  is  very  frequently  to  be  found.  They  are  for  the 
most  part  painted  by  Jacob  van  der  Sluys,  a  scholar  of  Slingeland's,  and  appear  under 
the  name  of  his  master.  Van  der  Sluys,  in  many  of  his  pictures,  i?  just  as  accurate  as 
Slingeland,  but  he  does  not  develop  the  taste  of  the  latter.  In  his  compositions,  this  master 
is  more  siiiipie  than  his  imitators. 

Slingeland  died  in  1640,  in  the  fifty-first  year  of  his  age. 


THE  ADVANrEl)  SENTRY, 


»  FTKK 

A.  FETTENKOFER. 


When  we  consider  the  "advanced  sentry,"  we  are  awakened  by  the  reminiscenses  of  the 
long  struggle,  which  the  "empire,"  especially  Austria,  was  compelled  to  maintain  against  the 
Tiu-ks.  The  Ottoman  as  a  "sick  man"  is  a  figure  of  very  modern  date.  Less  than  a  century 
ago,  the  Turk  played  the  part  of  a  lion  when  encamped  on  the  east  frontier  of  the  German 
empire — a  dreadful  beast  of  prey  that  could  only  be  appeased  for  a  time,  never  could  be 
sufficiently  fed,  nor  perfectly  tamed. 

In  opposition  to  the  over-refined  manners  belonging  to  the  culture  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury appeared  the  Mohammedan.  Rouge,  patches,  and  powder,  frivolous  gallantry,  elegant 
inirnurality,  the  mania  for  collecting  Chinese  porcelain,  Japanese  pagodas;  atheism,  and  puerile 


A^iu^'U^^^^^  .^d^^■ 


Tak/^.'^,i^eay  ?p/^^u^l>. 


THK    AOVANCKI)    SK.NTKV.     AFTER    A.     PKTTKNKOKKK.  \X', 

delight  ill  mystic  nouceiifie,  reifined  in  the  weHtorn  reji;ion(!  of  Europe,  while,  in  the  Orient, 
dominated  a  vulgar  figure  from  a  semi-liarbarous  world,  a  Caliban,  who  drew  the  sword  and, 
like  an  irreconciliablo  demon,  broke  through  this  world  of  fastidious  elegance,  with  its  jjrinrec 
and  mistresses  —an  unl'eeiing,  inacessible  Asiatic,  beyond  the  pale  of  all  European  measure, 
for  whom  the  world  possessed  nothing  so  desirable  as  money  and  slaves. 

The  Germans, or  rather  their  masters  and  mistresses — for  the  German  "people"  did  not 
exist  at  that  time danc^ed  to  French  melodies  and  delighted  in  tender  pastoral  pieces;  wliilc 
the  Turks  not  only  slaughtered  the  inhabitants  of  the  real  Arcadia,  but  with  glowing  eyes 
were  on  the  watch  where  a  weak  point  might  be  found  to  open  a  way  into  the  imitatcti 
pastoral  world  of  hair-|)Owder,  patches,  and  hoop-petticoats.  And  when  one  of  the  many  ar- 
mistices, which  the  em-jiire  conduiled  with  the  Turks,  was  over — the  follower,  of  Mohammed 
on  the  sanguinary  throne  in  Stiuubul  was  prohibited  by  his  faith  from  entering  into  a  real 
treaty  ot  peace  with  the  imliolicvers — or.  if  during  the  armistice,  a  good  opportunity  offered 
for  them  to  fall  ii|)oii  the  Hungarian  frontier  towns,  the  Ottoman  troops  crossed  the  Danul)e, 
precipitateil  themsclvc>,  like  a  flight  of  locusts,  uptm  the  poor  Christians  of  the  Austrijiii 
crowidands,  and  played  at  iiurning,  phmdering,  and  nmrdering,-  a  horrible  accompaniment  to 
the  elegant  music  of  the  Occident. 

There  were  brave  man  in  the  frontier  countries;  people  who,  in  jyoint  of  endurance 
and  valour,  indeed  for  their  unsatialde  love  of  war,  had  become  nearly  upon  an  equality  with 
the  Turks;  but  the  number  of  l)lades  which  they  could  nuister  to  glitter  in  the  sun  was 
insufficient  against  the  forest  of  sabres  of  the  sons  of  Osnian.  Tlic  German  F^raperor 
then  called  out  his  regiments,  at  first  from  the  Austrian,  Bohemian,  and  Hungarian  heredi- 
tary countries,  in  order  to  prevent  the  most  dangerous  attack.  Messengers  were  dispatched 
from  one  prince  of  the  empire  to  another:  the  Turks  were  there  again,  and  a  .strong  body  of 
troops  was  necessary,  money  more  so,  in  order  to  set  the  soldiers  in  motion. 

The  smaller  cities  of  Hungary  had  already  heen  destroyed  amidst  dreadful  bloodshed; 
high  blazed  the  signal-lights  to  point  oiu  the  way  to  thfise  on  horse,  and  where  their  hoofs 
had  touched  no  grass  was  to  be  seen.  Throughout  the  empire,  every  Sunday,  prayers  were 
oflFered  up  from  the  pulpits  against  the  dangers  of  fire,  water,  and  the  Turks ;  and,  with 
these,  the  German  emperor  was  obliged  to  content  himself  for  the  time  being.  The  people 
were  heartily  tired  of  the  distress  levied  upon,  them  by  the  continued  return  of  the  Turks, 
which  swallowed  up  such  immense  sums  of  money,  s.nd,  not  till  the  old  danger  "for  universal 
Christianity"  had  raised  itself  in  an  ad\ancing  army  of  Turks,  did  tlie  nearest  contingents 
of  the  Austrian  empire  begin  their  march. 

When  the  numerous  armies  were  collected-  together,  and  the  enemy,  after  a  hard 
brittle,  were  obliged  again  to  direct  their  march  towards  the  royal  sister  cities  of  Hungary, 
the  plague  conmienced  its  ravages.  Large  tents  were  pitched  on  the  marsh  plains  of  the 
Danube,  in  which  death — though  not  brought  down  by  the  Tin-kisii  sabres  gained  a  rich 
harvest.  Since  the  time  of  "Eugene  the  noble  knigiit",  there  existed  few  heroes,  who  kept 
their  armies  warm  with  fighting,  sieging,  and  storming,  that  they  might  have  no  time  to  think 
of  being  sick;  on  the  contrary,  most  of  the  generals  knew  well  the  art  of,  by  degrees, 
sacrificing  their  soldiers  in  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  it  was  to  be  feared  that 
the  Turks  would  cross  over. 

It  is  impossible  to  state  how  nuiiiy  men    Austria  sacrificed  in  maintaining  hei    post  a.« 


134  '■■'^'' '■■■'■•THfi  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

warder  of  the  German-Koman  empire  aj^ainst  the  janizaries  and  spahis  of  theonoe  justly 
termed  "grand  Turk."  The  last  hecatomb  was  sacrificed  by  the  Emperor  Joseph  II.  and  his  fiehl- 
marshal  Lascy.  The  Emperor  himself  belongs  to  the  victims  ol'  the  campaign  against  the 
Turks.  He  had  grown  old  in  the  fever  and  pestilential  districts  of  the  lower  Danube;  his 
constitution  broke  up ;  his  eyes  became  discoloured, — indeed  he  had  lost  the  sight  of  one, — 
and  his  martial  frame  suffered  inward  decay.  After  this  victim  the  Turk  was  not  able,  at 
least  with  the  sword,  to  impose  a  new  one. 

Pettenkofer's  "Advanced  Sentry"  reminds  us  of  the  fierce  battles,  fought  in  1700,  at  the 
mouth  of  the  Save  in  the  Danube  near  Peterwardein,  Neusatz,  Tit),  Carlowitz  and  along 
the  Croatian  frontiers.  The  soldier  is  the  nearest  epigone  of  that  army  which  perpetrated 
the  last  act  of  fratricide  in  the  thirty  years'  war — a  determined  devil-may-care,  dissolute 
fellow,  who,  in  order  to  be  less  hindered  from  advancing  or  retiring,  left  his  musket  behind 
at  the  advance-post,  and  entered  on  his  duty  armed  only  with  a  pike.  Standing  in  the 
middle  of  a  damp  corn-field,  his  sharp  eye  penetrates  the  distance.  And  while,  over  the 
wheat,  he  surveys  the  waving  rushes  of  the  Danube,  it  is  not  unlikely  that  an  Albanese 
approaches,  and  creeping  upon  his  hands  and  knees,  and,  springing  forward  like  a  panther,  lays 
the  sentry  prostrate  with  a  well-aimed  thrust  with  his  yataghan,  and  afterwards,  with  the 
head  he  has  severed  from  the  sentinel's  body  in  his  hand,  directs  his  course  back  again  to  the 
mounted  horse's-tail.  where,  on  his  arrival,  he  is  rewarded  with  a  gold  piastre  for  his  pains. 


INTERIOR  OF  A  PEASANT'S  HUT. 


AFTEK 

CHRISTOPH  PAUDITZ. 


This  painter  w-as  a  German,  and,  like  Ostade,  wandered  to  the  Netherlands  for  tlie 
sake- of  improving  himself  in  his  profession.  Pauditz  followed  in  the  school  of  Rembrandt, 
and  possessed  some  of  the  peculiarities  of  that  master,  inasmuch  as  he  shewed  great  power 
in  the  arrangement  of  his  lights,  but  never  sacrificed  his  tints  to  their  government,  for  they 
invariably  possess  a  local  importance.  His  drawing  is  firmer,  more  correct,  and  displays 
decidedly  more  feeling  than  Rembrandt's.  His  genius  did  not  extend  further  than  the  accu- 
rate delineation  of  things  as  they  are,  so  that  coldness  and  sobriety  are  the  prevailing 
characteristics  of  his  compositions. 

The  best  pictures  of  this  master  are  his  portraits.  In  fact  the  heads  of  his  figures  are 
all  portraits.  He  had  a  very  observant  eye,  and,  owing  to  his  remarkably  correct  drawing 
and  acute  powers  of  perception,  he  was  enabled  to  transfer  to  his  canvas  the  appearance  of 
intellectuality  or  other  peculiarities  diffused  over  the  countenance  of  his  original.  There  is 
nothing  in  his  productions  which  leads  us  to  presume  that  he  painted  from  his  faiicy;  there 
is  an  individuality  about  his  figures  that  goes  far  to  justify  the  supposition  that  they  were 
taken  from  real  life.     To  this  system  of  portraiture  he  strictly  adhcrrul,  and  he  m-vcr  seems 


,^^^u<>'  ^^aa^jJ&^    ^^..^^z^i&f^^^iayy^^ai^f^^^- 


1 


J 


^ 

^ 


i 


THE    VICTOK'S    APOTHKOSIS,  AFTER    P.    P.,  RUBENS.  135 

fo  liave  ventured  iijioii  any  aiiielioiatiun  or  to  have  given  any  s[)nghtlines8  to  the  generally 
harsh  features  which  his  model  presented;  he  could  not  adapt  them  to  any  special  artistical 
purposes.  In  his  pictures  of  saints  there  is  no  trace  of  an  attempt  to  elevate  or  endow  the 
countenances  with  anything  beyond  an  appearance  of  the  connnonplaces  of  nature.  Ik- 
is,  however,  very  successful  in  the  portrayal  of  a  pensive,  deep  melancholy  expression. 
Wlien  he  essays  the  humorous,  in  which  he  occasionally  indulged,  his  figures  are  awkward, 
and  apjiear  void  of  any  intellectual  faculty. 

In  the  Belvedere  Gallery  is  a  picture  by  Pauditz  of  a  "  St.  Hieronymiis  in  the  Desert." 
It  is  one  of  the  finest  by  this  master,  full  of  expression  and  consistent  characteristic. 
Another  piece  by  the  same  hand,  "The  Alchymist,"  in  the  same  collection,  is  better  painted 
than  imagined,  for  "there  is  no  rnind  in  the  countenance."  A  tliircl  picture  represents 
the  "Interior  of  a  Peasant's  Hut."  The  scene  lies  in  the  Black  Forest,  where,  sitting  in  a  room, 
are  a  bearded  man  and  a  boy  amusing  themselves  by  playing  on  an  old  l)arrel  organ, 
which  the  former  holds  between  his  knees.  Though  the  composition  contains  but  two  figures, 
they  sufficiently  serve  to  prove  the  justice  of  our  preceding  remarks — they  are  essentially 
clumsy  and  weakly  dei)icted. 

On  arriving  at  manhood,  Pauditz  returned  to  Germany  and  remained  for  some  time 
at  the  residence  of  the  bishop  of  Freising.  His  talent  as  a  portrait  painter  soon  procured 
him  reputation  at  court.  He  was  engaged  to  paint  a  picture  for  an  altar  piece  in  the  catlie- 
dral  of  Freising.  He  chose  for  his  subject  Christ  driving  out  of  the  temple  the  money- 
changers and  those  who  sold  doves.  The  picture  is  conceived  with  a  great  degree  of  judg- 
ment, and  the  painter  took  the  opportunity  as  usual  to  introduce  such  figures  only  as  he 
could  paint  from  nature,  seeming  to  take  them  as  they  might  accidentally  present  themselves. 
The  consequence  is,  that  although  the  design  in  itself  was  well  conceived,  the  tout  e.nseinhip 
presents  a  medley  of  grotesque  forms ;  the  composition  is  confused  and  ignoble. 

Where  Pauditz  is  confined  to  the  imitation  of  a  limited  number  of  natural  dlijects,  liis 
])erfnrmance  is  generally  good.  The  same  observation  will  apply  to  his  portraits  of  animal.-. 
Of  the  last  class  is  his  well  known  picture  which  represents  a  wolf  worrying  a  lamb;  while 
a  fox  is  watchfully  drawing  near  to  the  scene  of  bloodshed.  Tliis  picture  was  painted  to 
enudate  with  Franz  Rosenhof.  The  picture  of  the  latter  gained  the  prize,  and  Pauditz  fretted 
himself  till  he  died. — Pauditz  was  born  in  1608,  and  died  in  1666. 


THE  VICTOR'S  APOTHEOSIS, 


AFTER 

P.  P.  RUBENS. 


Amongst  the  works  of  Rubens,  allegorical  pieces  combined  with  historical  associations 
are  very  numerous.  In  these  representations  the  painter  possesseil  the  means,  very  con- 
venient to  himself,  of  blazoning  forth  on  his  canvas  the  deeds  of  the  great  men  of  his  time. 
In  these  allegorized   historical   pi'oductions,  with  tiieir  strange   mi.xtnre    of  natural    objects. 


i;jtt  THK  (JAI.I.KKIES  OK  VIKiNNA. 

fanciful  coiK^eit.s,  and  cornpreheii.sive  inj^rcdientN  the  iirti.st  could  without  restraint  avail  him- 
self of  his  bold  drawing  ol'  the  naked,  his  knowledge  of  the  action,  and  his  power  of  pro- 
ducing vivid  tints  of  carnation,  and  was  enabled  (o  introduce  any  figures  which  would  permit 
.him  to  show  these  qualities  to  the  best  advantage.  The  (•ombiiiation  of  terrestrial  beings  and 
luythologieal  and  allegorical  figures  afforded  him  an  opportimity  of  displaying  the  most 
striking  contrasts.  This  style  was  essentially  profitable  to  the  painter,  who  had  to  execute 
the  commissions  of  his  patrons  as  quickly  as  jiossible,  inasmuch  as  Rubens  required  no 
time  for  consideration  and  painted  his  pictures  off-hand.  A  few  portiaits,  and  a  few  more 
or  less  naked  male  or  female  figtn-es,  with  the  necessary  attributes — and  the  picture  was  done. 

These  pieces,  when  on  a  large  scale,  exhibit  a  deficiency  of  truthfulness,  a  paucity  of 
intellectuality,  and  a  total  absence  of  feeling;  they  are  therefore  not  calculated  to  make  a 
pleasing  impression.  The  great  display  of  feigned  pathos  and  theatrical  pomp  is  not  un- 
frequently  altogether  ridiculous,  sometimes  positively  repugnant-  as  an  instance,  we  have 
only  to  mention  "Marin  de'  Medici  entering  Marseilles"  which  lormed  the  fourth  of  a  series 
of  large  pictures  for  the  palace  of  the  Luxembourg. 

In  this  representation,  allegorical  naked  figures  are  intrusively  introduced  a  iinngst  the 
magisterial  personages  of  Marseilles,  and,  in  close  proximity  to  the  court  "ladies,  tritons  and  nereids 
arc  floundering  about  as  if  they  were  learning  to  swim.  In  the  air,  sundry  corpulent  females  are 
sounding  trumpets,  which  the  persons  represented  seem  to  think  quite  in  keeping  with  their 
proceedings.  These  pictures  are  very  justly  condenmed  by  those  critics  who  hold  Rubens  in 
HO  other  light  than  a  mere  fabricator  of  pictures. 

In  a  smaller  form  these  pictures  are  always  endurable.  They,  at  all  events,  serve  to 
shew  the  extraordinary  facility  with  which  Rubens  formed  a  composition  from  material  of 
incongruous  nature.  The  allegorical  picture  of  "The  Victoi-'s  Apotheosis,'"  in  the  Belvedere 
Gallery,  is  of  small  size  and  beautifully  painted.  It  represents  a  royal  warrior  anned  with 
shield  and  sword,  and  in  half  Roman  costume,  enthroned  on  the  bodies  of  the  conquereil. 
Bellona  is  guarding  him  with  lightning,  while  the  somewhat  corpulent  goddess  of  victory 
crowns  him  with  the  wreath  of  a  vanquisher.  In  all  probability,  the  figure  of  the  warrior 
is  intended  for  Louis  Xlll.  of  France. 


SMOKER  AND   DRINKER. 


AOBIAN  VAN  OSTADE 


In  Holland,  during  the  middle  of  the  seventeenth  century,  art  flourished  in  full  vigour. 
While  Tizian  ruled  the  empire  of  art  in  Venice,  Rembrandt,  beginning  to  grow  old,  swayed 
his  sceptre  in  Amsterdam,  and  he  was  aiiknowledged  by  a  tacit  general  consent  the  head  of 
the  painters  of  the  Dutch  school.  Either  of  these  masters  could  pleilge  himself,  by  con- 
veying his  own  peculiar  ideas  to  canvas,  to  produce  pictures  which  should  surpass  any 
of   Rembrandt's,    pi-ovided    he    chose    similar    subjects,    but,    let    it    be    remembered    that 


Qy^cM/^/fi  ,^^za>  13..^^/:^^./^^ 


^^^z^/ 


^^r  Jl^^^i^Ui>Zy^<?l^ 


SJIOKKK    AND    DinNKKH,     AFIKK     ADHIAN     VAN    OSTAUK.  \M 

the  old  anchorite,  the  solitary  magician —possessed  in  himself  as  imich  poetical  sentiment  as 
all  the  other  Dutch  painters  put  together. 

Wiicn  we  ('onsider  the  very  limited  Held  in  which  most  of  the  Dutch  masters  exercised 
their  talents,  anil  their  very  narrow  views  of  art,  we  cannot  hut  wonder  at  the  perfection  to 
which  they  arrived.  I'ntil  we  become  hetter  acquainted  with  these  pictures-  we  allude  to 
that  class  which  in  no  way  partake  of  the  style  of  Rembrandt~we  endeavour  in  vain  to 
discover  anything  like  an  apjiroximation  to  the  ideal,  or  a  free  and  elevated  sentiment.  We 
cannot  persuade  ourselves  that  these  painters  ever  reflected  before  they  connncnced  their 
subjects,  nor  that  they  were  endowed  with  any  feeling  or  courage  to  introduce  any  thing 
iurthcr  than  what  they  really  saw  before  them:  inasmuch  as  they  present  us  with  mere 
matter  of  fact,  without  any  attempt  at  improving  the  coarseness  of  that  peculiar  style 
of  subject  to  which  [they  devoted  their  labours.  AVe  cannot,  at  first,  divest  ourselves  of  the 
presumption  that  these  prosy,  jejune  figures,  aii])arently  thoughtlessly  brought  together,  are 
painted  hieroglyphics,  endowed  with  a  meaning  intentionally  hidden.  In  our  first  attempts  to 
do  justice  to  the  Dutch  masters  we  are  willing  to  see  that  which  corresponds  with  our  own 
ideas;  we  think  by  this  means  to  discover  those  of  the  painter,  and  in  this  way  we  proceed 
for  a  time  to  indulge  our  own  fancies. 

Thus  we  go  on  until  at  length  we  begin  to  acquire  the  real  key,  and  find  that  our 
own  notions  are  greatly  at  variance  with  those  of  the  simple-minded  Dutchman,  and  a 
thorough  change  of  feeling  comes  over  us.  We  begin  to  observe  certain  hints,  to  receive 
different  impressions,  and  finally  we  appreciate  the  true  sense  of  their  oddities  and  sin- 
gular characteristics.  They  are  in  fact  nothing  more  than  they  appear;  they  leave  nothing 
for  the  imagination  to  dwell  upon. 

The  Dutch  painters  represented  their  subjects  just  as  they  happened  to  see  them  in 
reality.  Irrespective  of  any  choice,  they  adhered  literally  to  what  accident  placed  before 
them.  Thus  we  see  objects  of  importance  mixed  up  with  things  of  trifiing  worth — incon- 
gruities prevail  throughout  the  composition;  hence  it  is  that  we  cannot  distinguish  any  de- 
cided leading  principle  and  are  at  a  loss  on  what  portion  of  the  subject  to  direct  our  attention. 
They  include  all  phases  of  real  life,  intellectual  as  well  as  insipid  individuality.  All  these 
peculiarities  appear  promiscuously  spread  over  the  canvas  and  we  are  left  to  make 
what  we  can  of  flicm.  From  this  chaos  it  is  impossible  that  we  can  form  any  ideal  unity. 
All  the  imessential  parts  are  jumbled  together  with  the  principal  objects,  and  serve  in  a  great 
measure  to  impress  upon  our  minds  that  they  are  the  chief  subjects  of  the  piece.  They,  in 
fact,  arc  fully  entitled  to  be  considered  so,  although  we  should  be  disposed  to  vindicate  the 
rights  of  those  figures  of  more  intrinsic  value. 

We  commenced  by  stating  that  the  Dutch  had  but  a  limited  field  to  work  in;  but, 
upon  a  closer  view,  we  feel  inclined  to  rccal  what  we  said  on  this  point,  for,  were  they  so 
restricted,  we  should  have  less  difficulty  in  finding  out  their  principles  concerning  the  choice 
of  their  objects.  The  space  in  Avhich  the  concordant  objects  is  broken  up  by  the  heterogeneous, 
great  and  small,  cannot  be  limited,  but  is  on  the  contrary,  very  extensive.  We  have  to  deal  with 
such  a  number  of  disproportionate  adjuncts  that,  in  order  to  arrive  at  an  idea  of  what  they 
all  mean,  we  arc  obliged  to  take  in  a  very  broad  range,  somewhat  upon  the  same  princi[)le 
as  we  do  a  number  of  vulgar  fractions  in  arithmetic,  if  we  desire  to  come  to  any  decided 
conclusion  relative  to  their  value. 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  18 


138  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  artificial  world,  which  we  find  depicted  in  the  works  of  the  Dutch  painters, 
appears  as  a  reflected  image  of  the  real  world;  at  all  events  they  endeavour  to  represent  it  so. 
The  Dutch  pictures  seem  to  include  both  to  the  fullest  extent.  What  would  he  considered 
merely  accessories  in  the  works  of  most  other  painters,  are  rendered  of  equal  importance 
with  the  chief  object,  and,  consequently,  by  their  being  in  no  way  subdued,  in  order  to  give 
weight  to  the  chief  object,  the  eye  is  diverted  from  one  to  the  other;  they  form  a  scries  of 
articles,  implement.s,  that  we  see  in  every-day  life.  An  immense  picture,  in  which  persons 
and  things  are  introduced  to  efl^ect  one  purpose,  will  bear  to  be  cut  up  into  several  small 
parts,  and  each  individual  piece  would  probably  contain  sufficient  material  and  definition  to 
form  a  subject.  Such  is  the  generally  received  opinion;  but  those  parts,  when  severed  from 
each  otiier — supposing  such  a  trial  were  made — and  examined  separately,  would  give  no 
idea  of  what  the  original  represented.  The  Dutch  painters  do  not  even  endeavour  to  furnish 
any  leading  idea,  or,  in  otiier  words,  tliey  exercise  no  freedom  of  mind  in  the  portrayal  of 
their  subjects;  they  place  their  figures  as  they  find  them  in  reality,  and  we  admire  the 
minute  fidelity  of  rendering  without  caring  to  ascertain  what  was  the  idea  of  the  painter. 

The  works  of  the  Dutch  masters  may  be  compared  with  a  daguerrotype :  they  are  con- 
fined to  one  point,  viz.  an  accurate  representation  of  things  as  they  are ;  and,  having  eflFected 
this,  their  task  is  finished, — their  aim  is  achieved. 

In  this  respect  their  productions  are  extraordinary.  To  effect  this  they  devoted  much 
time  and  labour,  and  to  such  an  extent  did  they  carry  out  their  feeling  for  the  delineation  of 
minutiae  and  such  attention  did  they  bestow  to  high  finish,  that  some  of  their  works  amount 
to  almost  an  optical  illusion.  This  feeling  for  accuracy  and  finish  had  reached  so  great  a 
height  that  the  different  masters  almost  admitted  the  necessity  of  limiting  themselves  to  a 
certain  department  of  art,  should  this  mania  continue  and  each  strive  towards  perfection. 

Terburg  presents  us  his  cavaliers,  Gerard  Dow  his  incomparably  correct  paintings  of 
old  heads,  Metzu  his  ladies  at  their  toilettes  surrounded  by  splendid  furniture,  and,  like 
Abraham  van  Tempcl  and  Francis  van  Micris,  a  superb  display  of  satin  dresses,  blonde  lace, 
and  carpets.  The  almost  incorrigibly  dissipated  Brouwer  loved  to  depict  grotesque  figures 
of  his  acquaintance  and  pot-companions;  Schalken  represented  tlie  efl^ects  of  lamp-light,  &c. 

The  remarkable  repose,  which  prevails  throughout  the  pictures  of  these  masters  and  those 
of  their  contemporaneous  countrymen,  lies  in  the  peculiar  manner  of  their  practice  of  art.  These 
painters  possessed  no  s[iontaneity;  they  created  nothing:  they  merely  depended  upon  the  services 
of  a  mirror,  exerting  their  utmost  cfl'orts  in  ciipying  literally  what  they  saw  before  them  reflected 
in  the  glass:  for  instance,  we  find  an  elegant  lady  and  a  copper  sauce-pan,  a  silver  wash-hand- 
basin  and  an  old  staircase,  a  delicate  looking  lap-dog  and  a  broomstick,  the  blushing  beauty  of 
a  charming  maiden  and  the  folds  of  a  silk  shawl,  painted  as  objects  of  like  importance. 

The  effect  jjroduced  upon  us  on  viewing  these  works  depends  wholly  upon  the  nature 
of  the  subjects:  and,  even  when  the  figures  appear  to  be  in  a  state  of  animation,  there  is  al- 
ways something  'deadly-lively'  about  them.  They  seem  to  have  sat  so  long  as  models  that 
their  life  and  spirit  have  become  exhausted,  and  the  expression  in  their  features  is  nothing 
more  than  grimace.  There  is  no  individuality  in  the  chief  figures ;  they  seem  to  be  occujiied 
in  'doing  and  thinking  of  nothing."  There  is  no  positive  connecting  link  in  the  composition; 
the  figures  are  heavy  and  inanimate.  In  whatever  occupation  they  appear  to  be  engaged,  no 
sign  of  interest  is  dejiieted,  no  expression  is  visible  in  the  faces  of  the  parties  concerned. 


SMHIvEl!     AM)     DKlNKKi;.     AITKK'     ADKIAX     VAN     (ISTAUK.  ]  30 

The  liist  rcmiirk  niMV  |)tn'Ii:iiis  lie  aeeepted  :is  an  eiiediiiiiiii,  for  it  is  that  immnvaliility 
(if  f'ealui-es  jieeuliar  to  the  eharacter  of  tlie  peiiple  and  wliicli  the  Duteli  masters  e\i(lently 
strove  to  portray.  Tliis  trait  is  so  fully  demonstrateil  as  to  lea\e  no  doiilit  ot'  tiie  real  exist- 
ence of  tlic  fiffwres  rejiresented.  Tiioy  might  eortniidy  lie  induied  with  some  degree  of  ex- 
pression—  they  might  lie  made  to  ajipear  as  if  aetcd  npon  hy  some  intinenee  or  other:  hut  the 
])ainter  seems  bound  hy  the  nature  of  his  materials  to  make  use  of  them  only  as  figurantes, — 
they  are  placed  in  the  scene  chiefly  for  the  pur[)ose  of  oceujiying  a  certain  situation. 

In  the  suhjcct  matter  of  the  Dutch  [lictures  there  is  no  visihle  evidence  of  real  life, 
or,  we  will  rather  say,  no  sign  of  intellectual  capacity. 

The  fidelity  with  which  inanimate  ohjects  appear,  however  correctly  iind  forcibly  they 
may  be  represented,  pleases  for  the  moment,  but  makes  no  lasting  impression.  A  landscape  witii 
a  steady,  consistent  light  is  less  charming  than  one  which  displays  the  glorious  phantasma- 
goria of  the  rising  or  the  setting  sun.  On  the  action  of  light  a  landscape  is  mainly  depend- 
ent, for  it  is  that  which  diffuses  a  charm  over  natural  objects. 

A  little  sail  far  distant  in  the  horizon  of  a  goi-geous  coast  scene,  the  single  hawk 
soaring  over  a  grand  rocky  landscajie — minor  objects  compared  with  those  which  the  eye 
embraces — materially  add  to  the  effect  which  the  wide  space  of  inanimate  nature  offers  to 
our  senses. 

Where  animation  appears  the  plain  substance  upon  which  it  acts  is  scarcely  regarded. 
We  have  a  perfect  recollection  of  the  appearance  and  manners  of  a  person  whom  we  have  once 
visited,  but  we  shoHld  be  wholly  at  a  loss  if  called  upon  distinctly  to  describe  his  dress,  or 
to  give  a  detailed  account  of  the  furniture  of  the  room  in  \vliich  he  received  us.  We  turn 
with  a  feeling  of  dissatisfaction  from  a  correctly  photograiihed  portrait  of  our  friend,  because 
his  mere  features  are  represented,  but  when  We  saw  him  his  countenance  expressed  that 
which  was  working  in  his  mind.  One  prominent  pecidiarity  of  emotion  is  sufficient  to  call 
to  our  minds  eye  a  person  with  whom  we  are  even  unacquainted.  The  image  of  other  per- 
sons which  exist  in  our  memory  consists  more  or  less  of  such  peculiarities.  Every  thing 
else  is  confined  to  an  indistinct,  general  idea. 

When  the  p.ainter  gives  only  that  peculiarity  of  the  emotion,  the  characteristic  ex- 
pression,— if  he  represents  the  general  appearance  of  a  man  sufficient  to  make  this  expression 
evident,  the  effect  produced  is  more  powerful  than  that  which  the  person  represented  him- 
self produces.  It  is  at  once  a  caincature.  If,  however,  the  artist  follows  up  the  less  striking 
peculiarities,  and,  with  precision,  represents  that  which  has  made  no  impression  upon  our  ideas, 
he  lessens  the  characteristic  effect,  and  his  work  must  necessarily  fall  to  the  level  of  grimace. 

However  the  minutest  detail  may  be  represented,  and  the  characteristics  of  the  mo- 
ment, as  in  real  life,  be  comprehended,  th6  seeming  animation  of  painted  objects  will  not  at- 
tain the  animated  expression  of  life  itself.  The  reason  is  obvious;  for  a  painted  representation 
cannot  give  that  succession  of  action,  which  in  nature  produces  changes  of  impressions  and 
still  preserves  an  effect  which,  on  the  one  hand,  exceeds  the  effect  produced  by  the  mo- 
mentary impression,  and,  on  the  other,  weakens  our  susceptibility  for  the  perception  of  the 
mere  material  detail.  If,  therefore,  in  painting  a  proper  impression  of  animate  substance  is  ob- 
tained, an  accurate  copy  of  nature  will  not  suffice.  This  must  be  re-modelled  by  the  creative 
powers  of  the  artist's  imagination;  form  and  expression  are  dependent  upon  him,  and  from  his 
conceptions  we  receive   those   impressions  which  are  conveyed  to  us  in  life  by  nature  itself. 

IS* 


140  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  more  correctly  the  Dutch  masters  copied  nature,  the  less  they  succeeded  in  re- 
presenting her  in  their  pictures.  They  got  so  far  as  to  give  dead  masses  an  importance. 
Their  figures  are  caricatures,  or,  as  an  exception,  they  are  utterly  void  of  expression. 

The  servile  imitation  however  has,  in  landscape,  produced  good  results.  Ruisdael 
opens  to  us  in  his  pictures  a  view  of  what  nature  supplies  to  the  fancy  and  to  the  refined 
eye  of  the  artist.  He  paints  his  subjects — ,  the  thick  wood  with  its  gloomy  shadows,  the  de- 
serted field,  the  isolated  hut  or  mill, — in  a  similar  manner  like  every  other  Dutch  ])ainter— 
onlj'  that  he  has  this  j>reference,  that  an  exact  harmony  exists  between  his  representation 
and  the  peculiarities  of  the  depicted  sceneries. 

Let  us  take  any  f>f  the  Dutch  masters — from  the  simple  painters  of  still  life  up  to 
Kemhrandt,  the  great  master  of  that  school — and  we  shall  find  that  their  works  bear  the 
stamp  of  a  mere  feeling,  without  ■  a  prevailing  artistic  idea.  Rembrandt,  instead  of 
corrrectly  portraying  the  material,  comprehended  his  sid)ject  negatively,  so  that  he  might 
exercise  his  judgment  in  the  introduction  and  the  variations  of  his  lights.  He  is  incor- 
poreal as  the  air  or  the  tones  of  music,  and  stands  between  the  material  world  and  that 
which  governs  the  free  application  of  his  ideas. 

Adrian  van  Ostade  is  one  of  the  best  masters  of  theDulcii  school.  The  "good  Ostade," 
as  he  was  generally  called,  in  order  to  distinguish  him  from  his  less  talented  l;rother  Isaak, 
is  often  named  the  'Dutch  Teniers.'  The  Fleniing,  however,  was  more  animate  and  character- 
istic than  he.  Ostade  was  really  a  Gei-man  by  birth,  and  so  was  Kasper  Netcher,  but 
they  must  both  be  looked  upon  as  painters  of  the  Dutch  school. 

There  is  a  certain  sensilile  groundwork  in  Osfade's  jiictures.  He  strove  at  picturesque 
grouping;  he  seemed,  as  it  were,  to  round  off  his  groups;  and  in  earlier  periods  onlj-  is  that 
appearance  of  negligence,  so  palpable  in  tlie  Dutch  school,  perceptible.  We  allude  to  the 
figures  being  placed  in  one  corner  of  the  picture— as  if  it  were  of  little  importance  where 
they  were  "stuck  in''  as  long  as  they  appeared  somewhere  on  the  scene.  Owing  to  this  ar- 
rangement, or  rather  to  the  \\ant  of  arrangement,  the  figures,  whatever  they  may  be  supposed 
to  be  engaged  in,  present  no  leading  feature,  and,  consequently,  possess  liut  little  interest 
to  the  beholder. 

At  a  later  period,  we  often  find  well  arrange<l  perspective,  although  he  takes  his  point 
of  sight  somewhat  high  in  the  picture,  so  that  his  ground  lines  run  up  violently  towards  the 
horizon.  As  an  example  of  this,  we  need  only  mention  Ostade's  celel)rated  piece  of  a 
"Boor's  Dwelling"— that  with  the  little  girl  and  dog — in  the  Louvre.  There  is  a  quiet  general 
interest  which  connects  each  figure  with  the  other.  The  wretchedly  ugly  forms  of  human 
figures  in  his  earlier  works  disapi)ear  in  his  later  productions;  but,  for  all  that,  they  lose  a 
certain  natural  power  of  expression.  This  may  moi-e  easily  be  observed  by  placing,  side  by 
side,  two  of  his  pictures,  representing  similar  subjects,  painted  at  the  two  different  periods. 
"The  Painter  in  his  Study,'"  in  the  gallery  of  the  Louvre,  is  exactly  on  the  same  principle  as 
that  of  the  same  subject  in  the  Dresden  Gallery.  The  principal  figure  is  seated  in  the 
middle  of  a  room,  painting,  and  from  a  high  window,  left  of  the  beholder,  a  strong  light 
shines  upon  him.  The  Dresden  painter  looks  much  more  reputable  than  the  one  in  Paris, 
who  has  paid  no  attention  to  his  toilet,  although  the  sun  already  shines  high  above  the 
mountains.  In  the  Dresden  picture  there  is  a  more  decided  treatment,  the  perspective  is  less 
violent,  and  the  light  introduced  from  the  window  is  more  powerful  and  effective   than  that 


SMOKIOU     AND     niilXKF.K,    AKTHH     AlililAN     \AN    OSTADE.  14| 

of  tlie  Louvre,  wliero  a  niucli  liroadcr  mass  of  liglit  oiiters  the  chnnibcr.  The  more  imposinti; 
cfl'cct,  liowevcr,  is  produced  in  (lie  I'arisian  |)ietnre.  In  tliis  tlie  points  of  ])ictiiresfnic  cft'eet, 
on  wiTu'li  the  beauty  of  tlie  piece  mainly  de])ends,  ajipcar  to  l)0  <r\\en  with  more  boldness 
while  the  harmony  which  pervades  through  the  Dresden  picture,  although  it  gives  more  im- 
porlanee  to  the  accessory  parts,  tends  to  lessen  the  effect  of  the  ])icturescpic. 

A  feeling  for  the  picturesque  is  strongly  developed  in  Ostade's  works;  it  seems  to  be 
one  of  the  predominating  characteristics  of  this  master.  JiCt  the  faces  of  his  figures  be  ever 
so  ugly,  he  well  understood  how  to  lay  on  his  colours  and  to  introduce  his  lights,  so  that 
the  figures  seem  in  a  great  measure  to  lose  that  repulsive  expression;  and.  in  fact,  lie  aji- 
pears  to  manifest  more  jOTwer  over  this  description  of  countenance  than  over  that  of  a 
more  human  and  nobler  character. 

O.stade's  pictures  are  not  composed  theoretically, — they  are  evidently  taken  from  real 
life;  and  we  may  say  the  same  with  regard  to  liis  perspective,  which  is  unconstrained  and 
effective.  Besides  the  chief  object,  he  introduces  many  accidental  ones, — things  of  merely  se- 
condary consideration, — which  he  finds  connected  with  it,  rendering  this  principal  object  less 
isolated.  He  is  always  fortunate  in  the  choice  of  these  minor  matters,  conducting  and  leading 
off  liis  iiglits  from  one  ■to  the  other,  so  that  they  vanish  b}'  degrees  and  appear  to  assert  the 
perspective  effect.  Where,  however,  he  attempts  to  bring  in  the  auxiliaries,  without  referring 
to  them  in  nature,  he  very  rarely  succeeds.  His  perceptions  are  sufficiently  great  to  guide 
him  in  his  choice,  and  to  prevent  his  introducing  any  glaring  ojijiosition.  It  is  only  in  his 
later  works  that  we  perceive  an  endeavour  to  conceal  tlie  art  l)y  which  he  managed  his  per- 
spective. 

His  groups  of  figures  are  always  placed  in  that  part  of  the  piclure  most  favourable 
for  the  reception  of  the  light.  They  are  so  ordered,  and  their  attitudes  are  such,  as  to  leave 
no  dou])t  that  nature  had  been  the  real  source  from  which  he  took  them. 

In  this  feeling  for  the  picturesque  Ostade  far  surpasses  Tcniers.  The  latter  has  but 
one  and  the  same  arrangement  for  the  different  subjects  wliicii  he  represented.  Whoever 
has  seen  one  of  his  "Village  Festivals"  or  "Boors  AVeddings"  has  seen  all  he  has  to  offer  in 
point  of  composition.  In  his  interiors  we  almost  invariably  find  a  perspective  view  of  a 
chamber  at  the  side  of  the  chief  room  whicii  forms  tiie  picture.  Ostade  has  greater  versa- 
tility in  this  respect  and  certainly  lays  claim  to  superiority.  .  Tcniers'  celebrated  picture  of 
"The  Picture  Gallery,"  as  far  .as  its  picturesque  arrangement  is  concerned,  is  confused,  la- 
boured, and  ineffective. 

The  feeling  for  observation  and  fine  delineation  is  the  great  characteristic  of  the  ce- 
lebrated Flemish  painter;  but  the  less  refined  Ostade  rivals  him  in  point  of  fancy  and  \  ariety. 

It  is  this  fancy  which  so  distinguisiicd  Ostade  from  the  Dutch  painters,  for,  if  they 
possessed  any  jiower  of  imagination,  they  very  rarely  called  it  into  action.  \\'haf  they 
saw  before  their  eyes  they  were  able  to  represent;  but  (hey  coidd  go  no  further.  AMiatever 
they  beheld  in  natuie  they  copied,  and  all  chance  objects  were  included.  If,  however,  these 
objects  did  not  suit,  they  were  left  out  altogether.  The  Dutch  |iainfers  did  not  ])ossess  the 
capaliility  of  sejiurating  the  accidental  from  the  essential;  they  did  not  know  how  to  subdue 
minor  objects  in  order  to  give  weight  to  the  chief  ol)ject  of  the  picture. 

Ostade  is  not  so  servile  in  his  copies  of  nature,  though  he  shews  no  great  freedom  of 
ideas;   they    are   more   confined   to   place.     The   composition  of  his   figures   is   pleasing  and 


142  THE    GALLEUIES    OF    VIENNA. 

natural,  and  he  places  them  in  favourable  situations,  hut  as  for  the  rest, — the  concomitants, — 
they  are  but  indift'erent. 

His  knowledge  of  art  had  not  reached  that  point  >vhich  could  enable  him  to  make  use  of 
his  theory,  nor  was  he  so  far  beliind  as  to  Ite  satisfied  with  a  faulty  representation.  The  re- 
gular and  systematic  manner  to  which  he  was  accustomed  operated  against  him  in  many 
respects,  though  it  often  assisted  him  in  his  endeavours  for  the  picturesque.  To  produce  this 
picturesque  he  was  necessitated  to  search  for  natural  sceneries  and  figures,  to  be  used  as  con- 
venient models.  These  prototypes  he  discovered  at  a  single  glance,  and  his  weakness  in  ar- 
tistic invention  was  made  up  by  his  power  of  judiciously  consulting  nature. 

^Vhen  Ostade  swerves  from  his  accustomed  rule,  and  works  as  from  his  own  imagina- 
tion, his  designs  are  very  imperfect.  In  order  to  corroborate  these  remarks,  we  need 
only  point  out  two  pictures  by  this  painter,  both  executed  in  the  same  year;  viz.,  "The 
Skittle  Ground"  a  real  master-piece,  and  "Boors  Dancing."  This  last  represents  a  number 
of  figures  dancing  in  a  barn ;  in  the  fore-ground  two  children  at  a  jug  of  beer,  a  dog,  and 
a  foot-stool  which  has  lieen  upset:  this  picture  is  altogether  a  bungling  affair.  The  piece 
must  have  been  conceived  and  painted  at  an  unfortunate  moment;  Ostade  depended  upon  mere 
outward  appearance;  his  powers  for  plastic  arrangement  were  not  in  play;  hence  great  want 
of  decision  is  manifested.  This  is  so  much  the  case  that  he  formed  an  erroneous  conception 
of  reality,  unless  natural  appearances  were  so  distinct  to  the  eye  that  no  great  difficulty  pre- 
sented itself  tending  to  confuse  him.  Where  this  master  introduces  forms  indicative  of 
motion — as  in  the  picture  of  boors  dancing — he  signally  fails  in  the  great  essentials ;  they 
neither  give  a  striking  idea  of  flippancy  caused  by  the  violent  activity,  nor  do  thej-  oft'er  an}' 
general  impi-ession  of  active  life. 

Ostade  seems  to  be  between  Rembrandt  and  the  close  copyists  of  nature.  His  imagi- 
nation carries  him  beyond  the  mere  imitation  of  nature,  but  does  not  enable  him  to  coml)at 
with  the  appearance  of  natural  objects. 

This  master  is  great  in  his  treatment  of  light  and  clearness  of  colouring,  although  his 
management  of  ijoth  liears  no  resemblance  to  that  of  liembraiidt.  Ilis  pictures  are  as 
finished  and  clear  as  those  of  Teniers ;  the  difference  between  them  is,  that  Oslade's  tones  are 
warm,  golden,  and  more  cheerful  than  the  cold,  silvery  tones  of  the  Fleming.  Ostade  is 
likewise  superior  in  his  broad  effects  of  light  as  well  as  in  his  treatment  of  colour.  A 
picture  of  Teniers',  compared  with  one  of  Ostade's,  presents  but  a  sombre,  meagre  appearance. 

The  'Belvedere  Gallery'  contains,  besides  "Smoker  and  Drinker,"  and  several  rtther 
pictures  of  boors  carousing,  &c.,  one  of  the  best  of  all  Ostade's  works,  "The  Dentist," 

Ostade  and  Adrian  Brouwer  studied  together  in  the  atelier  of  the  painter  Hals.  Ostade 
left  his  master  rather  prematurely  and  established  himself  in  Haarlem.  When  the  French 
invaded  that  city  he  meditated  a  return  to  Lubeck;  his  friends,  however,  persuaded  him  to 
remain  in  Amsterdam  till  real  danger  should  tiireaten  his  life. 

The  painter,  whose  family  rapidly  increased,  soon  relinquished  all  idea  of  leaving 
Holland.  In  quick  succession  he  produced  a  great  numi)er  of  pictures.  We  may  see  for 
ourseh'es  how  varied  his  conceits  were,  if  we  look  over  a  collection  of  engravings  from  his 
designs.    To  muse  over  a  series  of  Ostade's  works  is  a  real  treat. 

Ostade  died  in  1685,  in  the  seventy  fifth  year  of  his  age. 


\^ 


LAN'D.St'.M'K,    AI'TKK     .JAX     WiNANTS.  143 


L  A  N  D  S  ('  A  P  E, 


JAN  WYNANTS. 


Jan  VVynants  is  pretty  generally  known  as  one  of  the  leading  painters  of  his  day. 
He  had  a  constant  succession  of  scholars  who  studied  under  him,  amongst  whom  may  lie 
mentioned  Philii)  Wouverman,  Adrian  van  der  Velde,  and  Johann  Lingelhach,  who  rose  to 
great  celebrity.  A  master,  who  could  teach  such  scholars  and  exercise  such  influence  over 
many  of  his  followers,  must  have  been  possessed  of  more  than  a  common  share  of  power 
and  talent.  He  was  undoubtedly  one  of  the  best  masters  of  the  Dutch  school  during  the 
seventeenth  century. 

His  landscapes  differ  materially  from  those  of  modern  times.  They  deviate  too  freely 
from  nature.  We  rarely  find  a  tree  in  his  landscape  to  which  we  can  assign  a  proper  name, 
with  the  exception  of  the  fir,  and  in  many  cases  we  find  this  painted  according  to  his  fancy. 
In  his  foregrounds  he  introduces  huge  trees  which,  according  to  their  trunks  and  branches, 
bear  the  character  of 'leafed.'  He  gives  the  branches  a  sort  of  covering,  but  this  consists  of 
the  points  of  firs  apparently  massed  so  as  to  form  a  cluster.  We  do  not  say  that  they  are 
ineffective;  on  the  contrary,  they  arc  so  cleverly  placed  in  the  inunediafe  foreground,  and  in 
such  excellent  keeping  with  the  other  objects  in  the  piece,  that  they  do  not  ])resent  an  over- 
bearing importance,  nor  render  active  objects  valueless.  As  an  instance  we  mention  the 
picture  of  "A  Landscape;"  how  distinct  are  the  two  figures,  small  as  they  are,  which  meet 
our  eye  at  the  first  glance  in  the  foreground,  and  the  horse  and  cart  in  the  middle 
ground ! 

However  fresh  and  bright  in  colour  this  leaf-work  may  be,  notwithstanding  the  evident 
care  with  which  it  has  been  worked  up,  these  trees  bear  no  stamp  of  nature  about  them, 
This  ad  libitum  stjde  of  painting  trees  and  plants  may  be  pleasing  enough  when  wrought  up 
with  a  good  effect,  but,  as  has  been  often  remarked,  these  trees  in  Wynanfs'  pictures  are 
more  ornamental  than  natural.  In  the  middleground  they  wear  a  more  natural  appearance; 
they  are  treated  alike  and  are  all  of  one  character. 

Wynants  exercises  his  art  very  freely  as  far  as  regards  the  different  substances  and 
qualities  of  soil;  he  uses  every  means  to  display  variety,  and  is  not  at  all  j)articular  about 
introducing  glaring  anomalies,  if  he  can  but  effect  his  object.  He  breaks  up  a  uniform  line 
of  hills  by  introducing  precipitous  cliffs,  or,  like  Nicolaus  Berghem,  brings  in  to  his  assistance, 
in  a  flat,  quiet  landscape,  a  large  mass  of  rock. 

If  wc  compare  any  prospect  which  presents  a  similarity,  regarding  its  natural  jjro- 
perties,  with  a  landscape  of  Wynants',  we  shall  find  that  the  picture  contains  a  greater  number 
of  forms  and  is  more  complicated  in  its  detail.  But  nature  appears  to  have  a  degree  of  indivisi- 
bility; the  forms  bear  a  certain  similitude, — they  seem  to  dove-tail  into  each  other, — and  whatever 
contrasting  objects  may  come  in  contact  there  is  always  one  prevailing  character  throughout.  A 


144  THE  GALLEKIES  OF  VIENNA. 

flat  coast  scene  even,  -with  irregular  blocks  of  stone,  or  a  desert  plain,  with  majestic  groups 
of  rocks,  does  not  appear  inconsistent  or  strange  in  nalin'o.  We  need  not  enter  upon  any 
geological  research  in  order  to  acquaint  (iiu-selves  with  what  has  happened  hefore  nature 
could  present  such  striking  contrasts,  but,  from  the  outward  appearance,  can  trace  satisfactory 
causes,  and  form  an  idea  of  that  mysterious  power  against  which  nothing  can  contend.  The 
different  characters  or  forms  of  the  soil  bring  forth  the  same  kinds  of  vegetation ;  the  beauti- 
ful Erica  flourishes  amidst  these  erratic  phenomena,  taking  root  in  the  pieces  of  rock  and 
tlniving  as  well  as  in  the  sand  of  the  heath.  The  juniper  tree  too,  the  pyramid  of  the  de- 
serted plain,  may  be"  seen  as  a  single  representative  of  its  genus  dispersed  far  and  wide, 
growing  in  the  sand,  and  drifted  by  the  wind  into  tlie  recesses  of  the  rocks. 

Wynaiits  introduces  contrasts  into  his  pictures,  and  too  frequently  without  any 
sufficiently  redeeming  qualification.  The  scene  is  therefore  confused,  and  there  is  nothing 
for  the  mind  or  the  eye  to  dwell  upon.  That  considerable  merit  is  displayed  in  the  works  of 
this  master,  no  one  will  venture  to  dispute,  and  we  can  view  them  with  pleasure  provided  we 
are  not  disposed  to  be  too  critical,  and  wiidv  at  the  license  he  takes  in  ofl^ering  us  his  pictures 
in  which  no  strict  fidelity  to  nature  is  preserved.  Let  us  then  waive  our  objections:  we  will 
not  dispute  any  point  with  him  relative  to  the  true  characteristics  of  nattu-e,  but  accept  his 
trees,  mountains  and  rocks,  as  vehicles  for  the  representation  of  brilliant  light  and  colouring. 

In  his  distribution  of  light  and  harmony  of  colours  Wynants  may  be  considered  to 
excel;  the  fresh  and  silvery  haze  of  morning  seems  to  spread  itself  over  most  of  his  com- 
positions. The  truth  and  delicacy  of  his  aerial  perspective,  the  light  floating  sky  melting  into 
the  extreme  distance, — in  many  of  this  master's  pictures, — are  quite  equal  to  Claude  Lorrain. 
Many  of  his  scholars,  especially  Wouvcrman,  acquired  the  same  system  of  harmony  and 
practised  a  similar  effect  of  chiaro  scuro  as  their  preceptor. 

It  is  a  singidar  fact  that  Wynants  was  not  capable  of  figure  painting,  and  it  is  well 
known  that  all  the  accessories  or  figures  in  his  pictures  were  put  in  by  a  strange  hand.  The 
best  of  these  figures  were  painted  by  Wouvcrman,  although  they  were  not  always  suitaWe  to 
the  character  of  the  piece.  This  is  the  more  observable  in  those  painted  by  Lingelbach:  they 
possess  a  certain  stiffness  and  conventional  fashion,  while  AVouvennau's  groups  are  more 
true  to  nature.  Besides  the  before  mentioned,  Adrian  van  Ostade,  Van  Thulden,  and  Franz 
Hals  frequently  lent  their  assistance  in  providing  figures  for  AVynants'  landscapes. 

The  Ijclvedcre  Gallery  in  Vienna  contains  two  very  valuable  pictures  by  this  master. 
Some  of  his  best  works  are  to  be  found  in  the  Louvre.  There  are  likewise  some  very  re- 
markable pictin-cs  by  Wynants  in  the  different  collections  of  England. 

Little  is  known  of  the  circumstances  and  private  career  of  Wynants.  He  is  said  to 
have  been  a  gambler  and  a  drunkard,  and  for  his  "foul  mouth"  to  have  received  many  a 
corporal  chastisement.  This  master  flourished  in  tlie  year  1 640.  Neither  the  year  of  his 
birth  nor  of  his  death  is  accurately  known;  but,  according  to  the  "  Painters  Book  "  in  Harlem, 
he  was  still  living  in  1677. 


G 


'>ypm^>^ 


^366/^/4 


'<^ 


JMiiisLajislaJt.  V  A.tl  i-'hji' 


(Tl'in.    AKTICK    ANTON    VAN    DYCK.  145 


(iirii), 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK. 


When  wc  liear  the  name  of  Van  Dyck  mentioned  we  cannot  help  associating  it  with 
tiiat  of  Rubens,  and  vice  versa.  It  is  not  alone  the  closely  interwoven  biographies  of 
niastci-  and  scholar  which  causes  these  two  painters  to  appear  so  inseparably  con- 
nected. They  were  similar  in  their  ideas  and  their  genius  directed  them  into  the  same 
])aths  of  art. 

Nevertheless  these  two  painters  were  essentially  different  in  their  natures.  Ridjeus 
appears  rather  as  a  male  genius,  full  of  invention  and  creative  power,  while  Van  Dyck  is 
endowed  with  an  almost  female  delicacy  of  feeling,  which  is  but  seldom  an  attribute  of  his 
great  master. 

The  style  of  painting  which  Rubens  introduced  to  the  Netherlanders,  the  plastic 
element  demonstrating  the  principles  of  antique  sculpture,  is  common  to  both.  But  here  the 
similarity  breaks  off.  Rubens  depends  upon  the  external  appearance  of  his  figures;  endea- 
vouring to  produce  a  striking  impression  by  their  activity  alone.  Van  Dyck,  on  the  con- 
trary, though  he  attended  to  materiality,  found  means  of  giving  to  his  figures  an  intellectual 
('liaracter;  and,  in  his  best  days,  he  invariably  imbued  the  countenances  of  his  female  heads 
with  his  own  gentle  sentiments.  This  embodiment  of  the  material  and  the  ideal  is  rarely  to 
lie  met  with  in  the  Avorks  of  Rubens.  Van  Dyck,  in  the  working  out  of  his  subject,  shews  us 
the  distinctive  impression  which  his  figures  made  upon  himself;  lie  is  at  once  full  of  sen- 
timent and  natural.  The  figures  of  Rubens  display  nothing  of  this ;  they  are  plain  matter- 
of-fact  bodies—  they  attract  the  eye  without  producing  any  effect  upon  the  imagination. 
Rubens  does  not  act  as  interpreter ;  he  places  his  figures  before  us  like  so  many  actors 
on  the  stage,  and  orders  his  figm-es  to  tell  us  themselves  what  they  are  about  to  perform. 
Finished  or  unfinished,  intellectual  or  coarse,  his  figures  always  have  this  appearance  of 
self-dependence.  Van  Dyck's  ideas  flow  together  with  his  figures;  his  mind  penetrates  the 
given  forms,  the,  meaning  of  which  is  palpable  and  conspicuous  for  its  refinement  and  digni- 
fied style  of  beauty,  which  harmonises  with  the  character  he  intends  to  represent. 

By  this  harmony,  this  elevated  feeling,  the  material  and  the  immaterial  are  equally 
balanced  in  Van  Dycks'  pictures.  With  the  general  form  and  appearance  of  nature  he 
was  well  acquainted;  and  he  knew  the  art  of  combining,  was  skilful  in  the  selection  of  certain 
properties  which,  independently  almost  of  attitude  and  action,  will  give  force  and  intelligence 
to  the  figure.  It  is  otherwise  with  Rubens :  there  is  no  repose,  because  the  mass  of  the 
material  and  action  in  his  pictures,  as  a  general  rule,  outweighs  the  ideal  and  the  feeling. 
That  Rubens,  according  to  the  nature  of  his  powers,  had  a  wide  scope  for  the  develop- 
ment of  his  talents,  is  indisputable;  while  those  of  his  scholar  may  be  comparatively  con- 
sidered as  restricted  to  a  certain  limit  only. 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  19 


146  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Van  Dyck's  great  forte  was  evidently  portrait  painting,  in  wliieii  department  of  art  he 
not  only  equalled  his  master,  but  infinitely  excelled  him;  in  every  other  respect,  however 
Rubens  remains  his  superior.  Allowing  even  that  he  possessed  the  same  brilliant,  inexiiaustible 
jtowers  of  imagination  as  Eubens,  he  could  not  have  produced  similar  groups  of  figures— 
which  was  play  to  Rubens— without  devoting  a  great  deal  of  time,  exercising  the  most  stren- 
uous exertion,  and  bestowing  upon  them  most  elaborate  finish.  When  Van  Dyck  painted 
historical  subjects  containing  a  number  of  figures- which  was  but  rarely  the  case — we  usually 
discover  a  great  want  of  variety  in  the  cxiiression  of  his  faces;  a  monotone  sentiment  pre- 
vails throughout— in  short,  the  picture  is  void  of  that  dramatic  effect  whicii  this  class  of  com- 
position recpiires.  What  we  so  nuich  admire  in  his  single  figures  we  deprecate  in  his  groups; 
the  individuality  and  charming  sentiment  he  infuses  into  the  former  arc  alike  dignified  and 
natural,  while  in  the  latter  a  coldness,  occasioned  by  this  want  of  variety,  pervades  the  picture, 
detracting  from  the  interest  which  ought  to  be  kept  up.  They  remind  us  of  an  actor  who, 
though  he  enters  in  diff'erent  costumes,  represents  only  his  own  individual  character.  How 
very  limited  appears,  in  his  historical  jjieces,  the  fantasy  of  Van  Dyck  when  compared  with 
Rubens,  who,  free  as  if  soaring  on  eagle's  wings,  could,  like  Proteus,  metamorphose  himself  into 
any  shape  he  pleased. 

Van  Dyck,  at  the  commencement  of  his  career,  painted  after  the  manner  of  his  master, 
who  attributed  the  mild  look  of  sentiment  in  the  figures  of  his  pupil  to  his  youthful  inex- 
perience. Van  Dyck  had  been  placed  under  Rubens  at  so  early  an  age,  that  the  master  would 
often  say  that  Anton  was  born  in  his  atelier,  aijd  it  would  be  strange  if  the  youth,  who  came 
into  the  world  witli  pencil  and  pallet,  should  not  be  able  to  paint  as  well  as  himself.  With 
respect  to  colouring,  the  young  man  soon  stood  upon  an  ecpndity  with  his  master;  but  the 
latter  deceived  himself  when,  on  perceiving  the  abilities  his  pupil  displayed  in  copying  his 
pictures,  he  declared  that  the  youth  would  some  day  be  able  to  represent  similar  compositions 
by  drawing  upon  liis  own  imagination.  When  Van  Dyck  began  to  employ  his  powers  on 
original  composition,  that  which  he  borrowed  only  from  iiis  master  became  by  degrees  im- 
perceptible in  his  productions.  A  plaintive,  tender  meditative  feeling  was  the  leading 
characteristic  of  his  own  conceptions,  altogether  unsuited  for  the  heroic-historic  style  of  design. 

Rubens,  on  discovering  this  evident  deviation  from  his  own  style  and  the  aptitude  with 
which  his  beloved  pupil  seemed  to  follow  up  a  course  so  different  from  that  whicii  he  had 
formerly  practised,  advised  him  to  give  up  the  historical  and  to  confine  himself  exclusively 
to  the  study  of  portrait  painting:  a  proof  of  the  master's  sound  judgment.  Rubens  has  times 
out  of  number  been  represented  as  harbouring  a  jealous  feeling  against  Van  Dyck,  which 
arose  from  the  following  circumstance.  On  some  occasion  his  pupils  were  amusing  them- 
selves in  the  atelier  after  their  own  boisterous  fashion,  and  accidentally  rubbed  against  the 
picture  of  "  Christ  taken  from  the  fJross,"  then  resting  on  the  easel,  thereby  obliterating  part 
of  it.  Van  Dyck,  either  to  spare  the  annoyance  that  such  an  accident,  on  discovery,  would 
cause  the  master,  or  to  save  the  youths  from  the  displeasure  in  the  event  of  his  maidng  the 
disco-s'cry,  generously  set  to  work  and  painted  o\er  the  part  injured  in  so  masterly  a  style 
that  Rubens  never  detected  the  cheat.  This  fact  has  been  considered  sufficient  to  provoke  . 
the  jealousy  of  Rubens  and  to  induce  him  to  dissuade  his  favourite  pupil  from  pursuing  his 
course  as  historical  painter.     It  is  true,  many  have  asserted  that  Rubens'  character  was  too 


CTPIK.      AITKH     ANION     \  AN     DV(  K.  147 

nol)lo,  that  it  it;  highly  iiiiijrol)al)K'  iliat  lie  uould  descciul  to  such  iiieaimcs.s  the  tale,  how- 
ever, is  extant,  and  tlu'i-efore  we  ivA  it  hut  right,  here,  to  give  the  particulars  as  we  have 
been  eiial)led  to  ascertain  thciii.  Whether  it  was  this  cin'uinstaiiee  that  induced  ltiil)eiis  to 
advise  VaiiDyck  to  this  cH'cct— which  we  wholly  repudiate — is  of  little  conse((uence;  the  fact 
speaks  for  itself,  the  later  productions  of  Van  Dyck  confirm  the  correctness  of  his  master's 
judgment;  and  we  should  do  him  an  injustitje  were  we  to  doubt  the  sincerity  with  which  he  ad- 
ministered it.  Van  Dyck's  natural  capacity  was  not  adapted,— was  not  sufficient, —  to  embrace 
the  necessary  qualifications  for  a  great  historical  jjainter,  and  Kubens  acted  the  part  of  a 
father  when  lie  advised  the  young  man  to  give  up  sucji  unprofitable  employment. 

Tiie  care  and  anxiety  which  Rul)ens  shewed  in  rendering  his  puj)!!  assistance  that  might 
advance  him  in  his  profession  is  generally  known.  Rubens  knew  how  much  he  himself  was 
indebted  to  the  Italians,  which  he,  whatever  his  fancy  led  him  to  paint,  never  lost  sight  of. 
His  opinion  of  Van  Dyck  was  that  "in  the  use  of  his  pencil  he  was  a  rising  man,  but  in 
all  other  things  relative  to  painting  he  Avas  a  child  without  judgment."  In  order  to  awaken 
this  judgment,  and  that  he  might  gain  a  true  feeling  for  art,  the  master  deemed  it  necessary 
that  his  pui)il  should  go  to  Italy. 

Rubens  wrote  to  Caballcro  Nannc:  "iNIy  own  ])ictures  are  of  no  use  to  Anton,  for  he 
imagines  that  he  understands  them  better  than  I  myself  They  are  not  new  to  him,  it  is 
true,  for  he  has  grown  up  \yith  then),  but  yet  I  do  not  think  he  values  them  sufficiently.  I 
should  be  delighted  beyond  measure  if  he  eoidd  find  nothing  more  in  them  than  what  he 
understood  better  himself:  at  present,  however,  they  are  to  him  like  ships  which  sail  on  without 
his  knowing  what  is  concealed  in  thcin.  But  you  must  mention  this  to  him  in  such  a  way 
that  he  may  not  turn  refractory.  As  he  paints  as  I  do,  he  fancies  himself  finished,  and  cannot 
see  that  he  is  destitute  of  knowledge,  which  I  have  never  been  able  to  impress  strongly 
enough  upon  his  mind.  If  he  laboured  but  to  please  the  Great  Turk,  his  painting  of  beautiful 
women  would  be  ail  that  is  required;  but  these  beautiful  women  must  do  something,  or  they 
will  have  the  appearance  of  mere  automata.  He  does  not  see  this,  he  is  quite  blinded.  I 
.ho])e,  when  he  sees  Tizian's  pictures,  that  he  will  acknowledge  to  himself  that  I  am  right. 
They  are  likewise  beautlfid  women,  but  they  are  ladies,  who,  for  all  they  may  be  naked, 
would  not  I)e  shy  nor  I'ear  to  open  their  lips  in  the  society  of  nobility  and  princes.  But 
wlio,  that  has  not  been  instructed  like  Tlzian,  can  invest  his  personages  with  such  elo- 
quence. Anton  will  not  fall  into  despondency  when  he  see.s  Tizian's  pictures,  as  I  once  did 
while  standing  like  a  poor  sinner  before  the,  to  me,  new  style  of  painting;  he  will  find  that 
he  knows  something  from  second  hand,  but  the  Venetian  will  no  doubt  Ining  hhn  to  re- 
flection. And  what  will  he  think  when  he  looks  on  Raphael's  pictures,  \\Iiat  will  be  his 
feelings  then?  Will  he  stll  persist  in  devoting  his  talents  to  the  study  of  prettv  looking,  stupkl 
women  only?  However,  if  lie  will  not  leave  Saveithem,  shew  him  this  letter,  which  has  been 
more  difficult  to  me  to  write  than  if  I  had  to  make  an  application  to  a  high  personage  for 
my  money." 

Van  Dyck  had  now  set  out  upon  his  journey.  Rubens  was  princely  in  his  liberality 
towards  him,  providing  his  pupil  with  a  handsome  sum  of  money  and  furnishing  him  with 
one  of  his  finest  gray  horses  as  a  present.  But  in  Saveithem,  a  village  not  far  from  Brussels, 
the  young  man  made  a  halt,  attracted  by  the  beauty  of  a  peasant  girl.    He  now  determined 


148  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

on  not  proceeding  to  Italy,  arranged  an  atelier  in  the  house  of  the  parents  of  his  charmer, 
and  began  to  paint.  He  painted  himself  as  the  holy  St.  Martin  on  horse-back,  and  he  intro- 
duced the  portraits  of  his  mistress  and  her  parents  in  his  picture  of  a  holy  family,  which  he 
presented  to  the  church  of  Savelthem.  Rubens  on  hearing  of  this  egregious  act  of  folly  became 
almost  beside  himself.  An  attack  of  the  gout  prevented  him  from  going 'himself,  so  he  sent 
off  his  friend  Nanne  to  reason  with  the  young  man.  At  first  the  lectures  of  the  messenger 
were  unattended  to,  but,  by  dint  of  perseverance,  he  at  length  effected  the  object  of  his  mission: 
he  induced  Van  Dyck  to  prosecute  his  journey.  This  adventurous  interlude  caused  Rubens 
to  write  the  letter  from  wJiich  the  above  abstract  is  taken. 

At  length  Van  Dyck  reached  Venice  and  zealously  began  to  study  Tizian,  but  Paul 
Veronese  soon  became  his  favourite.  He  understood  this  master  so  well  that  he  shewed  him- 
self in  a  new  light  in  the  pictures  he  painted  at  Venice  and  afterwards  at  Genoa.  The  works 
were  now  free  from  the  puerile  uncertainty  of  his  former  productions,  his  conceptions  more 
elevated  and  his  too  tenderly  touched  in,  undecided  forms,  to  which  we  have  before  alluded, 
assume  the  boldness  of  an  experienced  hand.  These  pictures  of  Van  Dj'ck's,  painted  duiing 
his  residence  in  Upper  Italy,  under  the  fresh  impressions  he  had  received  from  the  works  of 
Paul  Veronese  and  Tizian,  rank  with  any  of  his  latest  productions.  We  may  mention  several 
portraits  of  the  Duke  Francesco  Moncado,  whom  he  painted,  once  on  horse-back  and  several 
times  in  his  court  robes.  One  of  the  latter  may  be  seen  in  the  'Belvedere'  Gallery 
in  Vienna. 

While  in  Rome,  Van  Dyck  painted  the  portrait  of  Cardinal  Beutivoglio  and  purposed 
taking  up  his  i-esidence  for  some  time  in  the  "Eternal  City,"  when  the  society  of  foreign  artists 
in  Rome  fixed  upon  him  as  the  object  of  their  intrigue  and  their  coarse  insults.  Full  of  in- 
dignation, the  young  painter  left  the  place  and  returned  to  (xenoa;  thence  he  travelled  on  to 
Sicily,  where  the  plague  scared  him  away. 

Destitute  of  means,  Van  Dyck  again  reached  the  Netherlands.  David  Teniers  the 
elder  advanced  him  a  sum  of  money,  and  he  again  began  to  paint.  He  had  become  a  great 
master,  as  his  picture  of  St.  Augustin  proved,  a  piece  which  he  executed  for  the  collegiate 
church  of  Courtray.  For  some  time  after  his  return  he  appears  to  have  kept  aloof  from  Ru- 
bens. This  now  elderly  professor  of  the  art  was  the  happy  bridegroom  of  the  most  beautiful 
girl  in  all  Antwerp.  Her  name  was  Helena  Forman,  and  she  had  seen  but  sixteen  summers. 
The  probability  is  that  Rubens  received  his  former  scholar,  who  had  a  very  prepossessing 
exterior,  in  a  manner  so  coldly  that  the  latter  was  diffident  in  intruding"  himself  upon  the 
domestic  hearth  of  his  former  benefactor. 

Rubens,  after  his  marriage,  endeavoured  to  induce  Van  Dyck,  who  was  engaged  at  the 
(^ourt  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  to  visit  him,  intending  to  propose  to  him  his  eldest  daughtei", 
by  his  first  marriage  with  Elizabeth  Brant,  as  a  suitable  wife.  Van  Dyck,  however,  found  no 
attractions  in  the  unformed  figure  of  the  girl;  besides,  she  was  cast  into  the  shadow  by  the 
beauty  of  her  young  mother-in-law. 

Charles  I.,  who  was  a  great  patron  of  art,  having  heard  of  Van  Dyck's  renown,  called 
him  to  England;  and,  as  the  painter  was  satiated  with  life  in  the  Netherlands,  he  gladly  em- 
braced the  opportunity  afforded  him.    lie  arrived,  however,  in  this  country   at   a   most   un- 


C'L!PII>,  APTKK  ANTON  VAN  DVIK.  149 

favoiir;ilile  moment,  for  the  eourt  was  at  variance   with  the  people,  and,  notwithstanding  the 
royal  patronage,  took  little  notice  of  the  foreign  painter. 

Van  Dyck,  finding  himself  in  this  dilemma,  retained  to  Antwerp,  for  he  wanted 
money.  At  this  conjuncture  all  differences  hetween  him  and  Kuhcns  seem  to  have  subsided, 
and  we  can  gather  from  many  circumstances  that  Rubens  brought  his  influence  to  bear  on 
his  personal  acciuaintance  with  the  king,  thereby  securing  Van  Dyck  a  good  reception 
at  court. 

( )n  Van  Dyck's  second  arrival  in  London  his  way  seemed  prepared  for  him.  The  king  re- 
ceived him  with  marked  distinction  and  commissioned  him  to  paint  himself  and  the  members 
of  his  royal  family,  at  the  same  time  appointing  him  a  winter  residence  in  Blackfriar.s 
and  a  summer  resort  at  Elthain.  The  king  had  diibiicd  him  a  knight,  and  Sir  Anton 
Van  Dyck  moved  in  the  highest  circles. 

The  painter  was  received  by  the  royal  family  on  an  almost  intimate  footing.  Van 
Dyck's  portrait  of  tliis  monarch,  in  the  Dresden  gallery,  bears  not  only  the  best  likeness  ex- 
tant of  the  royal  personage,  but  excels  most  of  the  numerous  portraits  in  point  of  conception, 
boldness  of  design,  and  dignity  of  expression.  Like  Holbein,  the  finest  productions  of  the 
genius  of  Van  Dyck  were  exemplified  in  the  portrayal  of  beauty.  Tizian  and  Hans  Holliein 
only  can  enter  the  lists  with  Van  Dyck.  Although  tiie  historical  i>ictures  of  the  latter  are 
more  graceful  and  delicate  than  powerful  and  elevated,  they  invariably  display  the  refined 
taste  of  the  painter  and  his  superior  management  of  colours. 

In  London  this  eminent  painter  gave  loose  to  dissipated  habits,  which  by  degrees  un- 
dermined his  constitution.  He  was  surrounded  by  a  number  of  young  and  bcautifid  women 
who  were  supported  at  his  expense.  In  order  to  bring  about  a  change  in  the  state  of  things, 
and  to  rescue  him  from  his  perilous  situation,  the  king,  through  the  medium  of  his  noble 
friends,  brought  about  a  marriage  between  the  court  painter  and  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
court  ladies — Maria  Ruthven,  the  grand-daughter  of  Lord  Gowrie. 

Van  Dyck's  constitution  had  become  so  impaired  that  all  cndeavoiu's  at  resuscitation 
proved  abortive.  He  made  a  tour,  with  his  young  wife,  to  Antwerp  and  Paris,  but  this  in 
no  way  conduced  to  his  convalescence:  he  returned  to  England,  where,  at  his  residence  in 
Blackfriars,  he  died  December  9tli.  1641,  in  the  forty  second  year  of  his  age.  He  left  an 
only  daughter,  who  at  a  later  period  was  man-ied  to  Mr.  Stepney,  grandfather  of  the  poet 
of  that  name.  Lady  Van  Dyck,  a  second  time,  entered  the  matrimonial  state,  and  became  the 
wife  of  Richard  Pryse  of  Newton  Aberbecheni:  she  had  no  issue. 

Van  Dyck's  pictures  possess  refined  sentiment — they  are  free  from  those  extravagancies 
which  Rubens  so  loved  to  indulge  in.  He  rejected  the  imperfections  and  copied  only  the 
beauties  of  nature,  and  his  portraits,  for  which  he  is  so  justly  celebrated,  will  stand  the  test 
of  criticism  for  many  succee^ling  ages. 


1 50  THE    (iALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 


C  A  T  T  L  E, 


PAUL  POTTER. 


The  pictures  of  Paul  Potter  oft'er  little  variety;  his  ideas  were  confined  to  a  very  li- 
mited sphere;  he  presents  us  landseajjes  nearly,  and  sometimes  wholly,  devoid  of  chai-ms — 
quiet,  uninteresting  plains — the  monotony  of  which  is  relieved  by  a  few  objects  in  the  fore- 
ground, and  these  consist  of  domestic  animals — cattle,  peacefully  grazing,  or  in  a  state  of  re- 
pose. When  we  say  tliat  his  sphere  was  limited,  far  be  it  from  us  to  depreciate  his  justly 
merited  celebrity,  or  to  dej)rive  him  of  that  praise  which  is  rightly  due  to  him.  This,  however, 
we  shall  presently  shew. 

One  peculiar  feature  in  the  composition  of  Potter's  pictures  is  the  'situations'  of  his 
figures,  which,  standing  out  in  liold  relief  from  the  horizon,  acquire  a  force,  a  substan- 
tiality, rarely  met  A\itli  in  the  works  of  his  contemporaries.  His  style  is — if  we  may  be  al- 
lowed the  term — indejiendent;  he  .«ouglit  not  to  attract  the  eye  by  brilliant  dashes  of  light 
and  colour, — on  the  contrarj^,  a  secluded  stillness  pervades  throughout  the  scene.  He  seems  to 
have  been  fully  sensible  of  his  powers,  to  have  attempted  no  more  than  he  was  capable  of 
achieving:  in  short,  he  seems  to  have  painted  for  himself  alone,  apparently  luiconscious  that 
any  other  eye  than  his  own  was  ever  to  be  directed  to  his  subject.  His  keen  observation  and 
strict  attention  to  details  are  worthy  of  remark:  they  are  his  distinguishing  characteristics, 
perceptible  in  all  his  productions;  at  the  same  time  they  are  inobtrusive  and  in  no  way  tend 
to  distract  the  eye  from  the  principal  subject  of  the  piece. 

We  minutely  examine  the  picture,  and,  by  degrees,  are  struck  with  admiration  of  the 
wonderful  art  of  the  painter  who  secm-cs  to  his  works  so  high  a  rank,  and  we  cease  to 
wonder  at  the  enthusiastic  desire  wliich  many  entertain  for  the  possession  of  one  of  Paul 
Potter's  pictures  of  "Cattle."  We  find  nothing  left  to  our  imagination;  we  beiiold  nature  re- 
presented in  her  true  light  by  the  hand  of  genius.  His  subjects  are  studied  and  worked  out 
according  to  the  laws  of  harmony,  and  the  effects  he  introduces  are  moderate  and  charming. 
In  our  country  walks  we  have — and  jiow  often! — seen  similar  scenes  to  that  now  before  us, 
yet  these  subjects  are  ever  fresh,  and  revive  in  our  minds  many  a  pleasing  reminiscence. 
Potter's  works  are  more  true  to  nature  than  those  of  the  "facsimile"  draughtsmen,  who 
suffer  not  a  hair  to  escape  their  notice.  Potter  presents  us  the  realization,  it  is  true,  but  he 
subdues  all  crudities  by  his  arrangement  of  light  and  colour  and  the  harmony  of  his  tints. 

The  animal,  in  a  happy  state  of  existence,  has  something  mysterious  in  its  dreamy 
gaze;  the  eye  of  an  animal  wears  a  gloomy,  melancholy  expression,  which  is  even  discernible 
in  the  fiery  orb  of  the  lion.  This  sorrowful,  dreamy  appearance  in  the  cattle  of  Potter  is  one 
of  his  master  strokes,  and  unintentionally  refers  to  the  absence  of  human  figures  in  some  of 
his  ]iictures,  thereby  placing  the  beholder  in  indirect  connection  with  the  animals. 


^^^t^^i^^!^:J^ 


Drucku  Verla^f  d  Kn^Iischen   Kiinstanstalt  v  A.H.  Payne.  LeipaiJ &  Dre^dai 


CATTMC.    Al'lKK     TAl  1.     I'dTTEK.  1 -,  1 

I'liiil  I'ottor  dcsc'eiidecl,  on  lii?;  luotlicrV  side,  from  the  family  of  the  Karl.-'  of  Kirmond: 
lu;  was  l)orii  at  Knkluiyzen  in  tlie  year  l()2ri.  The  jiaiiiter's  jrraiidfather  was  a  highly  re- 
spectable officer  of  the  state;  but  iiis  lather,  Peter  Potter,  devoted  himself  to  tlie  art  of  paint- 
ing, and  lived  in  somewhat  straitened  circumstances.  Peter  Potter  umlerstood  the  jjainting  of 
animals  pretty  well,  hut  his  forte  was  landscape,  into  )vhich  he  was  fond  ol'  iiitroihicinji- 
biblical  accessories.  The  father  kept  Paul,  at  an  early  age,  at  drawing  and  painting,  and,  in 
his  fourteenth  or  fifteenth  year,  the  lad  proved  himself  a  very  tolerable  master  in  the  por- 
traiture of  animals,  more  especially  of  oxen.  The  Ijoy  was  looked  upon  as  a  wonder,  a  7'ara 
oris;  and,  at  that  age  even,  he  received  considerable  sums  of  money  for  his  pictures,  poor  as 
they  were  in  [wint  of  colouring;  but  this  defect  was  counterbalanced  by  the  bold  and  correct 
drawing  which  distinguished  them.  Father  and  son  rcrj)aired  to  Amsterdam,  where,  it  seems, 
the  latter,  by  studying  and  contemplating  the  works  of  the  artists  of  note  at  that  time,  soon 
acquired  a  very  good  idea  of  colouring.  The  youth  continued  to  study  and  copy,  without 
the  aid  of  a  master,  many  of  the  best,  chietiy  Dutch,  pictures  which  the  rich  trading  city 
boasted  of  possessing.  iVlthough  thus  indefiitigably  industrious  in  imitating  the  works  of  man 
he  made  nature  his  paramount  study. 

Paul  was  of  an  ambitious  temperament  and  was  led  to  try  his  prowess  as  historical 
painter:  he  therefore  returned  after  a  slK)rt  time,  when  he  heard  of  the  favourable  reception,  and 
the  approbation  with  which  some  of  his  small  cattle  subjects  had  been  received  at  the  Hague. 
Potter  had  now  reached  his  twenty  fifth  year  and,  hitherto,  he  had  applied  his  earnings  to 
the  support  of  his  father  and  his  family;  he  however  released  himself  from  them  and  set  out 
for  the  Haoue.  He  had  not  been  long;  there  befoi'e  he  found  himself  in  an  excellent  situation. 
Moritz,  Prince  of  Orange,  patronized  the  young  artist  and  honoured  him  with  many  commis- 
sions for  pictures:  Paul  thus  rapidly  gained  a  reputation  and  was  known  in  the  highest  circles. 
On  his  ai-rival  at  the  Hague,  he  accidentally  took  up  his  quarters  at  the  house  of  an  architect, 
one  Nikolous  Balkenede,  who,  according  to  Descamps,  was  considered  the  Vitruvius  of  Hol- 
land. It  was  jvorthy  of  so  great  a  man,  when  Potter  demanded  of  him  the  hand  of  his 
daughter  in  marriage,  to  reply:  "I  cannot  think  of  accepting  for  my  son-in-lu'.v  a  man  whose 
art  is  simply  limited  to  the  painting  of  brutes."  His  aristocratic  patrons,  however,  seem  to 
have  brought  him  I'ound  to  entertain  a  different  feeling,  for  Paul  married  the  daughter  of 
Vitruvius,  formed  an  establishment  for  himself,  and  his  house  was  the  centre  for  all  the  ama- 
teurs of  the  fine  arts  m  the  "  Residence." 

One  of  the  painter's  distinguished  guests  growing  enamoured  of  his  beautiful  wife, 
who  was  well  known  for  her  coquetry,  this  afforded  him  an  opportimity  of  acting  towards  the 
lovers  precisely  in  the  same  manner  as  the  jirovoked  Vulcan  did  towards  his  lady,  Venus, 
only,  instead  of  the  Olympians,  Paul  called  his  assemliled  guests  to  be  the  witnesses  of  the 
piquant  scene. 

After  this  occurrence,  and  especially  after  having  been  weak  enough  to  forgive  his 
wife  and  wholly  look  over  the  offence,  he  was  not  able  to  maintain  his  position  in  the  Hague. 
He  could  no  longer  hold  up  his  head  in  the  place  and  therefore  determined  on  returning  to 
Amsterdam,  where  he  found  a  friend  in  the  Burgomaster  Tulp,  an  admirer  of  art,  who  pur- 
chased all  the  pictures  that  Potter  afterwards  painted. 

Soon  aftci'  he  was  settled  in  Amsterdam  he  became  dissatisfied  with  the  style  he  had 


152  THE    fiALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

hitherto   adopted   with  such   success,  and  in  order,  as  he  imagined,  to  give  his  productions 
greater  vahie  and  importance,  he  began  to  paint  cattle  the  size  of  life. 

We  need  scarcely  dilate  on  the  great  mistake  which  Potter  in  this  instance  committed, 
nor  enlarge  upon  the  many  artistic  difficulties  against  which  he  had  to  contend,  as  the 
painting  of  cattle  only  was  his  forte,  and  he  overlooked  or  forgot  the  necessary  adjuncts. 
His  bulls  and  cows  seem  in  the  great  frames  to  have  hardly  room  for  their  ponderous  bulk: 
the  size  of  the  pictures  does  not  admit  of  a  sufficient  breadth  of  foreground  or  landscape ;  no 
playful  light  nor  depth  of  shadow  can  be  introduced,  no  room  can  be  found  for  collateral 
objects,  and  they  deserve  to  be  regarded  merely  as  "  Studies."  Such  a  mass  of  pure  matter 
of  fact,  as  these  paintings  present,  cannot  possibly  raise  in  the  mind  any  pleasurable  emotion; 
we  rather  deplore  that  so  gifted  an  artist  as  Potter  should  condescend  to  desecrate  his  can- 
vas; w-e  readily  acknowledge  the  truth  and  accuracy,  and  the  j)ains  bestowed  upon  the  for- 
mation of  the  animal,  but  an  involuntary  idea  comes  across  us — we  had  as  lief  see  the 
original! 

When  Potter,  instead  of  placing  Iiis  animals  so  immediately  in  the  fore-ground,  places 
diem  at  a  moderate  distance  in  the  picture,  and  the  surrounding  space  be  sufficient,  he  under- 
stands perfectly  well  how  to  dramatize  his  subject  by  collateral  means,  (and  these  but  iew'}  to 
rivet  the  attention  and  excite  the  admiration  of  all  beholders.  Our  remark  will  be  borne  out 
by  referring  to  the  engraving  of  "  A  Friseland  Horse."  We  see  a  beautiful  dapple-grey  horse 
standing  in  the  middle  of  a  field  while  a  terrific  storm  is  brewing  in  the  heavens.  The  mane 
falls  in  three  locks  and  is  bound  together.  In  the  distance  is  descried  a  little  town.  This 
horse  so  dependent  upon  man,  this  isolated  creature,  standing  as  if  immoveable;  this  poor 
horse,  so  powerful,  now  so  helpless,  and  exposed  to  the  impending  roll  of  thunder,  the  awful 
lightning,  and  the  outpouring  of  the  bursting  clouds,  makes  a  peculiar  and  lasting  impression 
upon  our  senses. 

Potter,  idthoiigh  but  29  years  of  age  when  he  died,  painted  a  considerable  number  of 
pictures. 

The  Louvre,  the  Museum  at  the  Hague,  Amsterdam,  and  the  Hermitage  in  St.  Pe- 
tersburg (which  contains  "Potters  Cow"),  are  the  richest  in  the  works  of  this  painter.  The 
picture,  from  which  the  accompanying  engi'aving  is  taken,  is  one  of  the  finest  works  of  this 
master,  and  one  of  the  chief  objects  that  attracts  the  attention  of  the  connoisseur  in  visit- 
ing the  'Esterhazy'  Gallery. 


Cu<?^ 


^^^ai>z/^  (S-'^^^^ki^i-  &,^^    e-^^^  .=3a^?^ 


DrucTtuVerla|  d  EnglieoUBiirKunstanstdlt  v  AHFaync  Xeipzi^ 


THE    SICK     I.Ain-,     AKTICK     r(l01{i:\\  I.IKT,  153 


THE  SI(  K   LADY, 


TOOKENVLIET. 


Jacob  Toorenvliet  cannot  be  considered  as  a  painter  whose  name  ranks  amongst  the 
celebrities ;  still  this  master  is  one  of  the  most  remarkable  ])henomena  of  the  Dutch 
School  in  the  seventeenth  century.  He  possesses  an  extraordinary  keen  perception,  and  a 
most  certain  hand  in  the  delineation  of  characteristic  phases.  He  is  a  bold,  oft  genial,  painter 
of  things  as  they  are;  pithy,  and  in  his  best  pictures  displays  a  feeling  for  beauty  and  striving 
after  artistic  arrangement  of  I'orm  in  drawing,  grouping,  and  colour,  without  weakening  the 
quaintness  peculiar  to  the  subject.  A  genre  piece  of  Toorenvliet,  as  far  as  powerful  and 
correct  expression  are  concerned,  will  vie  with  a  Terburg  or  a  Netscher,  in  the  same  ratio  as 
a  picture  of  Michael  Angclo  da  Caravaggio's  with  a  Caracci  or  even  with  a  Dolce. 

Most  of  the  small  pictures  by  this  artist  are — if  we  except  a  few  images  which 
are  slightly  treated — distinguished  for  their  vigour  and  broad  treatment,  in  addition  to 
which  they  are  carefully  finished,  although  the  detail  is  not  worked  up  to  the  extent  of  a 
Dow.  A  picture  of  Toorenvlict's  is  rarely  to  be  found  which  does  not  possess  some  striking, 
original  feature.  This  painter  was  apt  to  indicate,  with  unlimited  freedom,  the  peculiar 
characteristics  of  his  figures  in  which  he  took  most  interest  either  in  the  position,  the  grouping, 
by  the  lights,  or  by  colour.  By  these  means  the  leading  characteristics  are  made  singularly 
apparent;  his  pictures  contain  a  piquancy,  which — excepting  the  coarse  style  of  Bniuwcr,  and 
in  the  jocular  ideas  of  iriend  Steen — is  not  to  be  found  in  the  works  of  the  painter  in 
miniature. 

Toorenvliet,  however,  was  neither  l)efore  nor  after  his  death  a  generally  valued  or 
known  master.  His  more  one-sided  cotemporaries  and  countrymen,  who,  void  of  taste, 
had  all  their  lives  remained  in  Holland  and  worked  only  on  the  copying  system,  not  troubling 
themselves  about  anything  fiu'ther,  succeeded  better  than  Toorenvliet  with  his  refined  ideas 
of  art. 

This  painter,  as  it  appears  in  his  works,  did  not  display  a  sufficient  degree  of  decision, 
or,  according  to  the  Dutch  saying,  "one  sees  not  whether  he  is  most  like  a  fish  or  a  herring." 
None,  however,  will  dispute  the  pro[u-iety  of  his  refinement  in  the  scenes  of  common  life,  and 
his  careful  forbearance  in  the  characterization.  But  this  polish  destroyed  the  genuine  Dutch 
relish  for  his  old  peasants,  musicians,  misers,  and  other  common-place  subjects.  These  people 
of  the  swamp  and  fog,  the  modern  Kimmericr — the  Dutch — hold  a  very  singular  criterion 
as  to  the  jieculiarities  in  the  pictures  of  their  painters  in  miniature.  A  picture  by  fJal)riel 
Metzu,  representing  a  market  day  in  a  city,  caused  a  general  sensation  from  the  circumstance 
of  those  skilled  in  this  department  of  knowledge  being  able  to  distinguish,  by  the  cut  of 
the  coat,  the  cap,  from  the  manner  in  which  a  handkerchief  was  bound  round  and 
fastened  behind  the  heads  of  the  women,  the  costumes  of  the   different   figures,   the   peculiar 

Galleries  of  Vicuna.  20 


154  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

forms  of  the  wheel-barrows,  &c.,  from  what  villages  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Leyden  the 
market  people  came.  This  was,  certainly,  a  point  of  vast  importance  in  a  country  whose 
cities  might  be  characterized  by  the  various  effluvia  in  their  atmospheres — a  delicacy  of 
distinction  which  even  a  Gerard  Dow  and  a  Metzu  never  arrived  at.  Edam,  for  instance, 
smells  of  cheese;  Schiedam  also  enjoys  an  atmosphere  of  cheese,  but  it  is  likewise  impregnated 
with  the  mild  odour  of  the  spirit  which  l)ears  its  name.  The  perfume  which  salutes  the 
nose  in  Rotterdam  is  a  mixture  of  tar  and  herrings;  Biervliet  may  be  supposed  to  emit  the 
fumes  of  extract  of  herrings;  and  Amsterdam  emits  all  the  scents  peculiar  to  a  drug- 
gist's shop. 

Toorenvliet,  having  become  'Italianised,'  introduced  a  foreign  element  into  his  pictures, 
which  was  us  offensive  to  the  taste  of  his  countrymen  as  if  he  had  put  before  them  cheese 
with  sauce  of  clo^es  and  all-spice.  The  painter  in  vain  endeavoured  to  forget  the  Venetians 
and  the  Bolognese  in  order  to  retrograde  to  the  genuine  Dutchmen.  Towards  effecting  this 
he  began  to  paint  his  likenesses  according  to  the  manner  of  his  countrymen — sober  copies  of 
the  originals.  But  our  artist  had  lost  so  much  feeling  for  the  minutire,  that  his  portraits  were 
by  no  means  good.  They  were  destitute  of  animation  in  the  expression,  weak  in  every  re- 
spect, and  looked  more  like  caricatures  than  representations  of  "living"  originals. 

When  Toorenvliet  painted  heads  of  importance  in  this  transcriptive  manner  they  were 
meagre  and  inane.  We  have  only  to  call  to  mind  the  portraits  of  Marshal  Graramont 
Maximilian  Philip,  the  archbishop  of  Cologne,  and  the  Prince  of  Orange,  from  which  the 
well-known  engravings  were  taken.  Those  portraits  were  much  worse  which  were  not  taken 
from  the  originals,  but  were  worked  up  from  different  copies,  or  coins:  viz.  Louis  XIV.  as 
Dauphin,  in  a  wig,  Karl  Gustav,  Palatinus  and  afterwards  King  of  Sweden,  and 
Frederick  II.  of  Denmark.  On  the  other  hand,  the  portraits  of  Jacob  Denys,  teacher  of 
surgery,  and  Theodore  Graanen,  a  philosopher  and  physician,  are  superior,  probably  owing  to 
the  beautiful  character  of  the  heads.  But  the  "Meeting  of  the  General-States,"  a  picture  con- 
taining many  portraits,  amongst  which  is  that  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  together  with 
Toorenvliet's  "grand  festin  du  JRoi,"  which  in  the  engraving  from  it  is  called  "grand  rSpas 
de  cerimonie"  is  altogether  insipid,  and  even  the  grouping,  in  which  this  painter  was  usually 
happy,  is  unsuccessful. 

In  the  greater  number  of  his  genre  pieces  Toorenvliet  is  excellent.  To  these  belong 
"The  old  Man  with  the  Money-bag,"  trying  to  induce  a  young  and  beautiful  girl  to  cast  aside 
her  reserve;  "The  Musicians,"  three  strange  looking  figures  practising  their  art  in  the  cottage 
of  a  poor  peasant;  "The  Soldier  and  his  Lass;"  "The  Mountebank's  Booth"  in  Schleissheim; 
"The  Butcher's  Shop"  in  the  Belvedere  gallery;  "A  Man  playing  the  Hurdy-gurdy  and  a 
Woman   singing;"  "The  Female  Fish-monger:"  the  two  last  in  the  Dresden  Gallery. 

Toorenvliet  likewise  executed  several  etchings;  one  of  the  most  highly  prized  is  the  por- 
trait of  the  before-mentioned  Dr.  Theodore  Graanen  and  that  of  Toorenvliet  painted  by  himself, 
represented  as  wearing  a  beard  and  with  a  hat  on  his  head;  the  countenances  are  full  of  ex- 
pression. The  head  of  St.  Jacob,  from  his  own  picture  and  etched  by  him,  is  more  of  a  re- 
miniscence. Toorenvliet's  etching  of  the  three  dogs,  for  a  long  time  imknown,  is  very  rare. 
These  etchings  are  advertised  in  Weigel's  catalogue  of  art,  and  are  said  to  possess  great 
beauties. 


irih-ensh. 


.^6a.//:' . 


TlllC     liAlilil,     Al'TlCU    OOVAKIM'    FI.INK.  /55 

Toorenvliet  was  born  in  Leyden  in  1641.  He  was  surnamed  Jason;  prol)al)ly  his 
110)11  de  guerre  in  Italy,  and  most  likely  a  corruption  of  the  word  JaUobsohn — the  son  of  Jacob  - 
it  l)eini;  the  christian  name  of  liis  fatlior.  It  is  related  that  Toorenvliet  had  so  ^reat  a  dislike  to 
his  father's  art  —the  elder  'i'oorenvliet  is  unknown — that  he  as  a  boy  never  eould  be  induced 
to  take  a  pencil  in  his  hand,  until  Jacob  represented  to  iiim  that  he  would  some  day  jjc- 
come  a  great  painter,  and  not  only  wear  fine  clothes,  a  hat  and  feathers,  but  that  he  would 
carry  a  handsome  sword  at  his  side. 

At  an  early  age  our  painter  went  to  Italy,  where  he  married  a  lady  of  good  family ;  a 
circumstance  which  estranged  him  from  his  friends  and  cotemporaries  on  liis  return  to  Hol- 
land. The  just  claim  which  Toorenvliet  possesses  to  the  notice  of  the  historian  of  art  is 
proved  in  his  picture  of  the  "Sick  Lady,"'  which  develo])s  the  free  turn  of  mind  and  the 
genius  of  the  master,  who  is  superior,  in  many  of  his  pieces,  to  those  of  his  cotemporaries 
who  gained  celebrity. 


THE    RABBI, 


GOVAKRT  FLINK. 


The  scene  of  our  narrative  lies  in  the  fine  old  city  of  Amsterdam.  It  was  a  rainy 
evening  in  November:  the  violent  blasts  of  wind  swept  every  thing  away  with  them  in  their 
progress  along  the  streets;  heavy  black  clouds  hung  over  the  city,  and  the  waves  of  the  Y 
dashed  boisterously  against  the  old  trees,  whose  melancholy  creaking  harmonized  with  the 
monotonous  splashing  of  the  water  beneath. 

The  time  about  eleven  o'clock.  The  sti-eets  were  wholly  deserted,  and  not  a  liglit  was 
visible  in  any  of  the  windows.  According  to  the  order  of  the  distrustful  Prince  Moritz  of 
Orange,   the   citizens   were  compelled  to   extinguish   all   lights   by   the   tenth   stroke    of  the 

evening  bell. Woe  to  them  who  did  not  obey  the  edict.    From  time  to  time  were  heard 

the  heavy  regular  steps  of  armed  men,  who  mai-ched  quickly  and  silently  through  the  streets. 
These  were  the  fire-guard,  who  were  provided  with  hand-cuHs  and  ropes  i'or  the  purpose 
of  binding  any  oflPender  against  the  fire-order  that  they  might  find,  and  whose  duty  it  was 
to  convey  him  to  prison. 

Now  and  then  the  rough  challenge  was  heard  of  the  fire-patrol  when  they  met;  a 
cheerless  addition  to  the  wretched  sensation  caused  by  the  heavy  dripping  of  the  water  from 

20* 


156  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

the  protruding-  gutters   on   tlie   roofs   of  the   houses,  and  the   constant   beating  of  the    r^iin 
jigainst  the  windows. 

A  single  individual,  with  a  hat  drawn  deeply  over  his  brow  and  the  upper  part  of  his 
figure  wrapped  u])  in  a  dark  mantle,  pursued  his  course  slowly  through  the  streets,  without 
seeming  to  suffer  any  inconvenience  from  the  tempestuous  scene  around  him.  At  intervals 
he  stood  still,  conversing  with  himself  in  a  deep  incomprehensible  tone,  and  apparently  un- 
conscious of  the  risk  he  ran  of  being  arrested  and  taken  off  to  the  city  gaol,  because  he, 
contrary  to  strict  orders,  did  not  carry  a  lantern,  and  certainly  had  no  pass-card  from  the 
stadhulder  by  him. 

The  figure  continued  his  way  till  he  readied  the  (piarter  of  the  city  inhabited  by 
poor  people,  fishermen,  bargemen,  porters,  beggars,  thieves  and— Jews.  He  had  wandered, 
along  this  long,  narrow  lane  for  about  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  when  he  halted  at  a  corner 
house  whei'e  he  endeavoured  to  recognize  a  dark  figure,  leaning  against  the  wall  of  a  narrow 
passage  which  led  to  the  door  of  the  house. 

"Who's  there?"  enquired,  in  a  subdued  tone,  one  who  had  observed  him. 

No  answer  was  returned  to  this  challenge. 

"Ble,r!  I  know  that  something  from  above  touched  my  shoulder!  it  was  not  a  cat, 
I'll  be  sworn.  Hark  ye,  good  friend,  will  you  be  kind  enough  to  answer  or  shall  I — as  I  am 
rather  curious  this  evening — siiall  I  compel  you  to  find  your  tongue  by  a  few  touches  of 
my  rapier?"' 

Something  rustled  imder  the  dark  jjortal  and  i'rom  tiie  further  end  appeared  the 
slender  figure  of  a  young  man  in  a  short  cloak,  who  advanced  into  the  lane  and  eyed  the 
interrogator  for  some  moments. 

"Ah,  it  is  you!    What  brings  you  here?" 

"I  may  ask  you  the  same  question.  Sir."' 

"For  a  stripling  as  you  appear  to  be,  your  manner  of  replying  is  rather  unbecoming, 
especially  as,  judging  from  your  pronimciation,  you  are  a  foreigner.  Who  are  you  and  what 
business  can  you  have  here  at  this  time  of  night?    I  do  not  ask  a  question  three  times!" 

"Sir,  if  you  acknowledge  yourself  one  of  the  fire-guard,  1  am  quite  ready  to  answer 
your  question,"'  said  the  young  man  in  a  somewhat  tremulous  tone. 

"That  is  no  concern  of  your's,  whether  I  am  of  the  fire-guard  or  not." 
"O  yes,  it  concerns  me  greatly,  for  if  you  are   not   a  memlicr  of  that  body    I   shall 
not  suffer  you  to  interfere  with  me  any  longer." 

"Indeed!  Explain  yourself ■ — " 

"I  desire  you  to  draw  your  weapon  and  to  defend  yourself  against  me." 

"The  devil!  Fatal  consequences  may  ensue  here.  May  I  enquire  whether  you  carry 
so  unexceptionable  a  blade,  and  are  so  practised  in  the  use  of  it,  that  you  without  any  cere- 
mony challenge  a  stranger  \vith  whose  powers  of  wielding  his  weapon  you  are  wholly 
ignorant?" 

"You  must  prove  them.  Sir!"  returned  the  young  man. 


THli     HAHUl.     AKTKK    (JOVAKUT     KMNK.  157 

"Well  said,  blexV  muttered  the  other.  "If  you  deuiaiul  that  1  shall  fight  with  you,  my 
brave  Paladin,  it  shews  that  you  entertain  very  little  respect  for  the  night  patrol " 

"I  give  myself  no  trouble  about  them." 

"By  my  faith!  you  arc  quite  right.  I  begin  to  like  you  better  the  longer  1  talk  with 
you.  My  opinion  of  them  is  that,  these  night  patrol — devil  take  'em,  lazy  vagabonds,  they 
deserve  to  be  well  flogged,  till  the  skin  is  torn  from  their  backs.    What  say  you  to  that?" 

"We  agree;  these  people  do  not  fulfil  their  duty,  or  they  would  have  been  here  before 
this  and  arrested  us  for " 

"Capital!"  interrupted  the  other  in  a  cheerful  tone.  "You  seem  to  be  vexed  that  you 
liave  not  yet  been  taken  up  and  carried  off  to  the  dimgeon  of  the  powerful  senate,  there  to 
spend  a  few  days  on  a    heap  of  straw!" 

"You  guess  right,"  whispered  the  young  man.  "What  evil  spirit  brought  you  here 
to  destroy  all  my  hopes  in  an  instant?" 

"What  mean  these  enigmatical  expressions,  my  good  friend?" 

"It  would  neither  serve  you  nor  my.self  were  I  to  explain  them.  Take  care  of  your- 
self, and  leave  this  place  imless  like  me,  you  intend  to  be  arrested — I  mean  to  play  a  little 
music  on  the  window  here  with  my  sword  which  shall  not  fail  to  reach  the  ears  of  the  fire- 
guard, even  were  they  twice  as  deaf  as  they  are,  or  as  they  appear  to  be " 

The  elder  of  the  two  interrupted  the  speaker  by  seizing  him  suddenly  by  the  arm, 
and,  with  a  strength  not  to  be  resisted,  forced  him  back  into  the  entrance  of  the  house. 

"  There  come  the  fire-guard!"  muttered  he;  "I  beseech  you,  my  good  friend,  to  keep 
yourself  quiet  for  a  few  moments " 

"I  will  not!"  cried  the  younger  man,  trying  vainly  to  free  himself  from  the  grasp  of 
his  companion. 

"I  must  not  on  any  account  be  apprehended  by  the  watch  here " 

"What's  that  to  me?    I  will  be  arrested At  all  risks " 

"Well,  if  you  are  so  determined  you  can  easily  accomplish  that  an  hour  hence,  just  as 
well  as  at  this  moment.  Be  still — when  the  watch  have  passed  I  have  something  of  great 
importance  to  say  to  you — I  promise  you  on  the  word  of  a  cavalier  that  you  shall  have  no 
reason  to  regret  your  compliance  with  my  request " 

"Are  you  a  Spaniard?" 

"No  matter." 

"Y'^our  name?  at  once!  or  in  a  few  minutes  you  shall  find  yourself  marched  off  with 
me  to  the  stadhouse." 

The  elder  considered  for  a  moment. 

The  fire-guard  were  now  in  their  immediate  neighbourhood.  The  clatter  of  the  re- 
gular footsteps  of  the  guard  was  distinctly  audible,  and  they  appeared  to  be  rapidly  ap- 
proaching. 

"I  am  the  Chevalier  de  Oude!" 


158  l'"!^    GAI.LEUUOS    OF    VIENNA. 

"De  Oude?  Ah!  the  elder — but  no,  you  are  deceiving  nie — that  is  not  your  real 
name but  it  may  suffice  for  the  present!" 

Tlie  soldiers  maixhed  close  by  the  place  where  the  two  were  concealed. 

"Halt!"  commanded  the  officer  with  su]ipressed  voice. 

The  guard  stood  motionless. 

"Did  none  of  you  hear  any  suspicious  sounds?"  inquired  the  officer. 

The  guard  continued  silent. 

"Did  any  one  speak?" 

"No!" 

Then  we  must  divide  our  party.  Two  men  must  take  possession  of  the  outlet  to  this 
confounded  Jews'  lane,  and  in  the  mean  time  we  search  every  corner  and  examine  the  en- 
trances to  all  houses  in  the  place. 

One  of  the  guard  stepped  forward  and  addressed  the  lieutenant  to  the  effect  that 
this  would  be  unnecessary  trouble  and  loss  of  time.  "It  is  well  known  that  in  the  Jews' 
quarter  nothing  has  ever  occurred  in  opposition  to  the  rules  of  the  city,  and,  in  a  w  eather  like 
this  we  have,  to  endure,  no  especial  order  can  be  needed  to  prevent  the  people  of  Amster- 
dam putting  their  noses  out  of  doors—  the  only  person  out  to  night  besides  ourselves  is 
De  Oude." 

"Well,  and  if  he  should  have  squeezed  himself  into  any  of  these  corners?"  muttered 
the  officer,  looking  sharply  round  on  all  sides. 

"Then  he'll  hear  that  we  do  our  duty,  and  the  devil  take  his  sniffing  and  listening 
every  where " 

The  officer  hesitated  a  little  while  and  tlien  commanded:  March!  This  conversation, 
overheard  by  de  Oude,  did  not  by  any  means  seem  in  conformity  with  his  own  self-esteem; 
he  muttered  something  to  himself  which,  judging  from  the  sound,  seemed  to  be  anything  but 
blessings  on  the  heads  of  the  party  which  had  just  retired  from  the  scene. 

"You  seem  disposed,  Mynheer  de  Oude,  to  keep  me  company  for  the  night,"  said  hia 
conqjanion  after  a  pause. 

"Certainly  not,"  replied  de  Oude.  "But  tell  me  what  induced  you  to  encamp  in  the 
street,  instead  of  going  to  bed  like  other  decent  people,  and  I  will  leave  you  immediately." 

"1  see  no  reason  why  I  should  answer  the  question." 

"But,  blew!  when  I  put  the  question  with  the  best  intention  in  the  world?  I  can  tell 
you  that  I  am  very  rarely  disposed  to  offer  my  assistance  as  I  have  done  in  your  case.  I 
assure  you  that  most  people  are  very  glad  to  accept  of  my  services — when  I  offer  them!" 

"You  speak  as  though  you  were  the  stadholder  of  Amsterdam." 

"Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  be  so  stupid,  cowardly  a  drone  as  the  stadholder!   No,  I 
have  not  yet  arrived  at  that  honour." 
A  pause  ensued. 

"Are  you  the  person  of  whom  the  watch  spoke — Mynheer  de  Oude?" 
"Perhaps  I  am." 


TIIK     IJAHHI.     AKTKH     f;(»VAI.I;T     FMNK.  150 

"Then  you  arc  an  officer  of  rank."' 

"Yon  have  hit  it,  yonnf:  <reiitlcnian." 

"Then  why  (hd  not  the  guard  ?pc  you?" 

"Another  question  sagaciously  putl  Be  satisfied  with  tlic  assinancr  that  I  am  uncom- 
monly disposed  to  enter  into  your  whim  to-night.'" 

"Very  well,  then,  a  noise  is  all  that  is  required  to  effect  my  imi)risoumcnt.'" 

"What  a  strange  fellow  you  are.  Are  your  circumstances  so  desperate  that  you  long 
for  chains  and  fetters  as  if  they  were  a  jiaradise?  You  do  not  seem  to  be  so  very 
badly  off!" 

"At  this  moment  I  am  as  poor  as — 1  cannot  tell  you — I  have  tasted  nothing  for 
twenty  four  hours." 

"That  is  not  a  very  long  fast:  you  are  a  noble  fellow  and  care  nothing  about  your 
stomach;  you  seem  to  have  a  manly  bearing,  and  1  am  not  at  all  disinclined,  provided  you 
can  give  some  satisfactory  account  of  yourself,  to  assist  you  with  my  purse.  Tell  me  honestly 
what  you  really  require.    "What  do  you  want?" 

"Ah!"  said  the  young  man  with  a  sigh,  "now  I  see " 

"Ble.r!  The  young  gentleman  is  growing  very  polite,"  said  the  elder  of  tlie  two  to 
himself. 

"I  must  confess  that  I,  at  first,  treated  you  with  an  unpardonable  want  of  respect,  to 
say  the  least.  You  meant  well  towards  me,  as  you  have  proved  by  your  generous  offer;  and 
I — I  confess  it^have  been  watching  an  opportunity  to  plunge  my  rapier  into  your 
breast." 

The  person  thus  addressed  withdrew  himself  a  few  paces. 

"You  woidd  have  found  my  coat  of  mail  somewhat  difficult  to  penetrate,"  murmured 
he  between  his  teeth. 

"But  here  your  coat  of  mail  woidd  have  been  no  protection  to  you,'"  remarked  the 
young  man,  placing  his  damp  fingers  on  the  throat  of  the  old  one. 

"Back,"  commanded  he  sternly.    A  pause  of  some  minutes  ensued. 

"Will  you  go  with  me  and  take  the  money  I  intend  for  you?"'  said  the  old  man 
somewhat  abruptly. 

"No;  money  alone  is  of  no  use  to  me." 

"You  are  in  love '" 

The  young  man  sighed. 

"Ah!  that's  it,  after  all!  But,  devil!  you  cannot  be  mad  enougli  to  hope  for  a  rendez- 
vous in  such  a  night  as  this;  besides,  you  must  be  aware  of  what  the  fire-watch  are  about — 
they  are  still  on  the  alert." 

"The  lover  was  silent." 

"Is  the  3'oung  lady  in  this  house?" 

"I  do  not  know O,  the  inexorable,  the  cruel  old  wolves  will  have  removed  her 

by  this  time '" 


160  THE      GALLERIES     OF     VIENNA. 

"Then  she  lives  here?" 

The  old  man  struck  the  door-post  with  his  hand. 

"Yes." 

"I  congratulate  you.    Then  this  lady-love  of  your's  belongs  to   the  chosen  people  of 

Israel This  is  a  nest  of  Jews!    The  old  Rabbi  Moschech  lives  here,  but  I  never  knew 

that  he  had  a  daughter." 

"I  have  not  spoken  of  Moschech's  daughter." 

"Be  cool,  young  man!  Perhaps  a  friend  of  the  Rabbi  has  arrived  who  has  brought 
your  flower  from   Saron,  your  lily  of  the  valley  with  him?   Out  with  it,  boldly  and  honestly! 

Moschech  and  I  are  very  well  acquainted;  he  entertains  no  little  regard  forme If  you 

can  only  manage  to  keep  me  in  my  present  excellent  good  humour,  with  which  I'm  seldom 
visited  more  than  once  in  half  a  dozen  years,  I  promise  you  that  I'll  move  this  old  Moschech 
What,  still  mistrustful?" 

"To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  have  very  little  to  do  with  Moschech,"  said  the  young  man 
in  a  low  voice.  "  Even  were  he  well  disjjosed  towards  me,  whicii  he  certainly  is  not,  all  that 
lies  in  his  power  would  be  to  betray  the  place  of  Rabbi  Joschiah  Ben  Jussufs  daughter's 
concealment.    Moschech  has  no  influence  whatever  with  this  proud  Spanish  Jew." 

"Here!"  ejaculated  the  old  man.    "Spanish  Jews  in  Amsterdam?     This  is  something 

worth  knowing Why,  I  imagined  that  the  last  of  these  spying  thieves  had  been  hanged 

long  ago!   When  did  you  see  this  Spanish  Rabbi  last?" 

"  Three  days  ago " 

"Where?" 

"In  this  very  house." 

"What  was  your  business  with  him?     Under  what  circumstances What  have 

you  to  do  with  this  d — d  spy?  Tell  me  the  whole  truth,  for,  if  you  do  not,  you  will 
suffer  for  it!" 

The  young  man  hesitated  for  a  moment.  He  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  his  feelings, 
as  if  worked  upon  by  some  powerful  influence,  when  he  reluctantly  answered: 

"I  have  painted  the  portrait  of  Rabbi  Joschiah  Ben  Jussuf." 

"Ha,  ha,  you  are  a  painter!  Are  you  not  ashamed  to  paint  the  portrait  of  a  Jew? — 
to  perpetuate  by  your  art  the  abominable,  scoundrel  looking  faces  of  this  scheming  brood!" 

"Sir,  whoever  you  may  be,  you  kno\\'  nothing  about  art.  The  face  of  a  Jewish  usurer 
may  be  infinitely  more  picturesque  than  that  of  a  Christian  Saint;  and  even  the  great  masters 
of  Italy  disdained  not  to  portray  the  most  detestable  of  all  Jews,  and  that  was  Judas  Iscariot 

— At   the  same   time   I  plainly  own  that  I  should   not  have  painted  this  Rabbi  Ben 

Jussuf  if  the  work  had  not  favoured  my  desire  to  prolong  my  stay  for  a  few  days  in 
Moschech's  house.    You  are  now  in  possession  of  the  facts  of  the  case." 

"You  have  dwelt  here?    Then  you  are  yourself  a  Jew?" 

"I  am  the  son  of  a  Christian  merchant  in  Cleve." 

"But  how  could  the  Jews  consistently  assent  to  receive  you,  an  unbeliever,  into 
their  dens?  These  foxes!" 


TIIK    KAlilil,    AFTEK    CiOVAKKT    I'Ll.NK.  161 

"Tlie  KaliLi  Joscliiali  Iiail  brought  his  charming  daughter  Arpa  with  liiiii  from  Lon- 
don to  tliis  city,  wliere  he  intended  to  leave  her  while  he  would  return  to  Spain,  where,  at 
the  risk  of  liis  life,  he  had  lun-icd  certain  property  on  being  obliged  to  flee  the  country.  He 
became  overpowered  by  liis  feelings  and  could  not  part  from  his  only  daughter;  lie  could 
not  bear  the  idea  of  being  deprived  of  her  gentle  attentions,  of  losing  sight  of  her  charming 
countenance,  while  he,  perhaps,  might  die  by  the  iiand  of  the  executioner  witliout  ever  seeing 

his  daugiiter  again 1  painted  Arpa's  portrait  for  a  medallion  which  the  Eabbi  meant 

to  take  with  him;  and  I  afterwards,  for  Arpa,  finished  the  likeness  of  her  father.  As  soon  as 
1  had  completed  my  work  ,'Moschech,  under  the  pretence  that  tjie  menials  of  the  senate  would 
search  his  house  for  any  Spanish  spies  that  might  be  concealed  therein,  induced  me  to  leave 
it — for,  in  order  to  lull  all  suspicion  on  the  part  of  the  neighbours  or  the  watchful  servants 
of  the  magistrates,  I  never  left  the  premises  during  the  whole  time,  which  I  span  out  as  long 
as  possible,  that  I  was  engaged  upon  1113'  work.  The  night  before  last,  when  I  returned  and 
asked  to  be  admitted,  I  was  refused  by  Moschech,  who  declared  that  he  did  not  know  me, 
that  he  had  never  seen  me  before,  that  no  Rabbi  Joschiah  of  Grenada  had  ever  lodged  under 
his  roof.    ]SIy  easel,  colours,  brushes,  palette — leaving  payment  out   of  the  question — I  have 

demanded  in  vain.    Moschech  does  not  know  me 1  did  not  venture  an  application  to 

the  authorities  to  assist  me  in  the  restitution  of  my  property,  for  should  they  search  the  house 

they  would  in  all  probability  discover  the  Ral)bi  Joscliiali  concealed  there The  father 

of  my  beloved  would,  in  that  case,  be  thrown  into  prison,  and  there  w-ould  be  no  hope  of  his 
release  unless  by  the  sacrifice  of  an  enormous  sum  of  money." 

"Are  you  then  convinced  that  the  Spanish  Jew  is  a  spy?" 

"I  do  not  believe  it.   Has  he  not,  surrounded  by  a  hundred  dangers,  fled  from  Spain?" 

"I  know  the  race!"  muttered  the  old  man.  "And  pray  what  is  your  object  in  placing 
yourself  here?  You  would  tacitly  assent  to  have  one  of  these  Jews  caught,  and,  like  the 
lynx,  you  sneak  about  waiting  the  opportunity  when  you  may  force  yourself  into  the  house, 
4ind  in  case  of  necessity  suffer  yourself  to  be  arrested  by  the  fire-guard,  in  order  to  cause  tlie 
authorities  of  the  city  to  interfere  in  your  behalf?" 

"You  have  hit  it!" 

The  old  man  drew  his  sword  and  with  the  flat  part  of  the  blade  struck  violently  one 
of  the  window  shutters. 

"Open  and  he  d — d  to  you!"  cried  the  old  man,  and  his  words  sounded  almost  like 
rolling  thunder.  "We  have  long  had  an  eye  upon  you,  you  rascals.  I  am  certain  that  none 
of  my  words  have  escaped  you — you've  heard  every  thing  I  have  said — Will  you  open 
the  door?" 

A  window  was  opened  from  above  and  a  nightcap  over  a  bearded  face  was  visible. 

"Will  you  cease  to  disturb  us,  or  shall  I  put  a  hmp  in  the  window  to  attract  the  at- 
tention of  the  watch?"  asked  a  trembling  voice. 

"Ha,  Ha!  Moschech!  Open  the  door,  or  the  watch  shall  set  a  sign  of  fire  in  your 
den  that  shall  be  seen  all  over  Amsterdam " 

"Heavens!  It  is  him!"  gasped  the  Jew.    "I'll  be  down  directly,  in  an  instant." 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  'J  1 


162  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

In  auothcr  minute  the  door  was  unbolted,  and  with  fear  and  trembling  a  crouching 
figure  made  its  appearance. 

''Heaven  be  merciful! walk  in,  Mynlieer,"  Said  the  Jew. 

The  .young  man  was  the  first  to  enter  the  house. 

"Is  this  gentleman  of  your  party?"  enquired  Moschech,  pushing  him  back  and 
fuming  to  the  elder  one. 

"Make  room,  you  rogue  of  a  Jew!"  commanded  he,  and,  accompanied  by  his  comrade, 
he  entered  the  dark  floor. 

"Where  have  you  concealed  the  Spanish  spy?"  he  enquired,  after  having  been  ushered 
into  a  miserably  furnished  apartment. 

Moschech  declared  by  all  that  was  holy  that  such  a  monster  as  a  Spanish  Jew  had 
never  crossed  his  threshold. 

"I'll  look  for  him,  and  if  I  do  not  succeed  in  finding  him,  I'll  send  others  who  cer- 
tainly will  not  fail." 

"Search  where  you  please,  good  Sir,  I  am  innocent." 

"And,  if  I  discover  Joschiah  Ben  Jussuf  in  this  dwelling,  I  promise  you  I  will  have 
you  hanged!"' 

Moschech  fell  on  his  knees. 

"Your  whining  and  howling  will  not  help  you,"  said  the  old  fellow  in  a  rough  tone. 
"Here  friend!"  addressing  the  painter,  "try  whether,  with  your  knowledge  of  the  place,  you 
cannot  unkennel  this  fox!" 

Moschech  sprang  up  and  seized  the  lamp. 

"If  it  must  be,  why,  I  cannot  keep  Joschiah's  secret;  he  must  take  his  chance,"  cried 
the  Jew.  "But  I  assure  you,  I  swear  the  poor  fugitive  never  thought  of  being  the  sj)y  of 
his  executioners,  or  of  raising  a  hand  against  the  only  prince,  against  the  illustrious  Moritz 
of  Orange,  who  with  powerful  arm  had  created  an  asylum  for  the  sons  of,  Jacob." 

The  old  warrior  stroked  his  beard  and  smiled  almost  maliciously. 

"You  make  Holland  an  asylum  indeed — independently  of  your  roguery — ycu  behave 
like  emancipated  slaves  towards  the  poor  Christians.  But  wait,  the  high  trees  do  not  grow 
in  the  sky!    Go  on,  Jew!" 

Moschech,  trembling,  obeyed.  He  conducted  the  uninvited  guests  into  a  chamber 
under  ground,  where  he  knocked  at  a  small  door  strongly  cased  with  iron. 

"Open!"  cried  Moschech  in  the  Hebrew  language. 

The  old  warrior  in  the  mean  time  drew  a  pistol  from  beneath  his  cloak,  and  cocked 
it.  "This  may  be  of  use,"  he  said,  '"in  case  your  namesake,  or  haply  any  of  his  comjjanions, 
should  .attemj)t  to  defend  themselves,  or  offer  any  kind  of  resistance." 

IMoschech  stood  aside. 

"How  should  the  timid  sheep  arm  themselves — "  he  muttered. 

"If   the   wolves  come  on  to  the  attack,"  said  the  old  warrior,  finishing  the  sentence. 


THE  RABBI,  AFTKR  GOVAEKT  FLIXK.  Ig3 

"Go  on,  insult  as  you  jileasel  Those  whose  hands  are  bound  shall  at  least  have  free  use  of 
the  tongue.'' 

The  closet  door  opened,  and  at  the  threshold  appeared  the  tall,  imposing  figure  of  an 
old  man,  in  a  long  fur  gown  and  a  silk  cap  on  his  venerable  looking  head.  A  long  gray 
patriarchal  beard  set  off  the  dark  coloured,  intellectual  countenance  of  the  fine  old  man. 

"Here  am  I!    AVhat  do  you  want  of  me?"  said  the  old  man  firmly. 

"Are  you  the  Spanish  Jew  Joschiah  Ben  Jussuf?"  the  warrior  asked. 

"I  anil"  was  the  answer,  which  was  succeeded  by  an  exclamation  of  astonishment 
and  horror."' 

"Why  that  roar?" 

The  Spanish  Eabbi  took  off  his  cap  and  bowed  reverentially. 

"I  could  not  suppose  that  Moritz  of  Orange  would  condescend  to  seek  out  the  hiding 
place  of  a  poor  Spanish  fugitive.  Hitherto,  when  the  Prince  of  Orange  sought  Spaniards, 
they  were  at  least  in  numbers  of  ten  thousand." 

"And  they  will  come  in  treble  that  number  to  seek  me,"  returned  the  prince,  his  brow 
darkening,  "when  you,  Joschiah  Ben  Jussuf,  shall  have  performed  your  duty  as  a  spy." 

"I  am  no  spy,  gracious  Prince,  but  an  unfortunate  merchant " 

"Why  then  conceal  yourself,  if  your  intentions  are  honest?" 
The  Spanish  Rabbi  cost  a  look  towards  heaven. 

"I  will  answer  you  truly,  for  if  I  am  to  vindicate  my  character  the  truth  can  no 
longer  be  withheld —Prince,  I  feared  your  avarice " 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  for  in  that  case  you  must  have  much  to  lose." 

"I  am,"  continued  the  Rai)bi,  "in  comparison  with  my  former  riches,  the  greater  part 
of  which  I  was  obliged  to  leave  behind  in  the  hands  of  my  persecutors,  I  am,  I  say,  a  poor 
man.  Still,  the  remaining  property  which  I  yet  call  my  own  is  of  double  value  to  me,  be- 
cause it  is  the  last  remains  of  ray  fortune;  should  I  be  deprived  of  this,  I  have  no  hope  left 
of  replacing  it  either  by  my  endeavours  to  earn  it,  or  by  any  other  means." 

Moritz  listened  to  this  speech  with  the  greatest  coolness.  He  threw  himself  into  a 
chair,  and  obeerved  the  Jew  with  a  contemplative  look. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments  the  Prince  addressed  the  Rabbi. 

"  For  your  stupid  and  equally  unrighteous  judgment  on  my  person,  you  are  not  to  be 
blamed.  It  is  this  rascal  Moschcch  who  has  put  it  into  your  head  that  the  head  of  the 
Netherland  states  is  about  upon  a  parallel  with  your  hang-dog  king  of  Spain.  I  shall  there- 
fore call  this  Master  Moscheeh  to  special  account.  But  you — where  is  your  daughter,"  en- 
quired the  Prince,  with  a  searching  glance  at  the  Rabbi. 

"Gracious  Sir!  I  should  be  proud  if  I  could  present  to  you  my  poor  Arpa,  that  you 
might  have  the  disinterested  satisfaction  of  admiring  the  beauty  with  which  God  has  en- 
dowed her.  But,  with  the  young  painter  as  your  companion,  you  must  not  hope  to 
see  Arpa." 

21* 


164  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"Do  you  hold  the  painter  to  be  such  a  reprobate  as  to  be  unworthy  to  look  on  a 
Jewish  girl?" 

"Pie  is  a  Christian,"  replied  the  Eabbi,  agitated.  "Never  can  there  be  any  united  interest 
between  him  and  Arpa.  Why  should  the  dear  girl's  feelings  be  pained,  her  heart  set  in  com- 
motion, by  seeing  this  young  man?"' 

"Well,"    said    Moritz.     "I    do   not    believe    that    my    young    comrade What 

is  your  name?" 

"Govaert  Flink,"  answered  the  painter. 

"I  do  not  believe,"  continued  the  Prince,  "that  Govaert  Flink  is  a  man  who  will 
grieve  himself  to  death  by  your  refusal,  that  is,  if  you  fulfil  your  engagements  to  him.  He 
has  painted  the  portraits  of  both  yourself  and  your  daughter;  what  do  you  intend  to  pay 
him  for  his  trouble?" 

"I  have  already  handsomely  paid  him,  Prince!" 

"  The  painter  has  not  received  a  deut " 

"I  forgot  to  hand  over  to  the  painter  the  money  which  Joschiah  gave  me  for  him," 
cried  Moschech,  wringing  his  hands. 

"Be  calm,  Moschech,"  said  Moritz.    "Where  are  the  two  pictures?" 

The  latter  hurried  out  of  the  room,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned,  bringing  with 
him  a  splendidly  painted  portrait  of  the  Spanish  Eabbi,  and  another  of  a  richly  attired  j5ale 
girl  with  jet-black  hair. 

Moritz  viewed  the  pictures  for  some  time,  then,  turning  to  the  young  man  and  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  shoulder,  said. 

"Govaert  Flink,  I  congratulate  you — You  are  a  master!  As  neither  of  these  Jews 
have  paid  for  them,  they  of  course  are  for  sale.  I  will  purchase  them  myself.  They  are 
worthy  to  be  hung  by  the  side  of  any  picture  in  my  collection " 

"Your  Highness,"  observed  Flink  hastily,  with  his  eyes  firmly  fixed  on  the  picture 
of  the  beautiful  Jewess,  "  I  shall  never  cease  grieving  for  the  loss  of  that  portrait  of  Arpa." 

"My  Prince,"  ventured  Joschiah  to  say,  "I  beseech  you  not  to  consider  it  as  pre- 
sumption on  my  part  if  I  offer  double  the  price  for  these  pictures  that  you  may  be  disposed 
to  grant  the  painter  for  them." 

"Very  well,  Jew,  I  take  you  at  your  word,"  replied  Moritz  with  a  derisive  smile. 
"  In  a  corner  of  my  palace  I  have  fifty  thousand  gulden,  which  I  have  preserved  in  order  to 
make  use  of  when  necessitous  cases  shall  come  before  my  notice,  or  for  rewarding  merit—  — " 

The  two  Jews  simultaneously  raised  their  hands  in  token  of  their  astonishment 
and  horror. 

"And  this  very  sum,  before  you  made  your  offer,  I  had  determined  on  giving  to 
Master  Govaert.  There  was  a  time  when  I  fancied  that,  for  this  heap  of  money,  I  could 
build  a  handsome  frigate,  and  hlex!  at  present  I  could  turn  some  good  fast  sailing 
vessels  to  account " 


TllK    ItAHIU,    AFTKR    OOVAKKT    KLIXK.  Hi.') 

"I  do  not  uiulerstand  you,  Princel"  staiumered  out  the  Spanish  Kabbi. 

"O,  well,  I  am  quite  willing  to  express  more  minutely  what  I  mean.   You  pay  me  for 

these  two  pictures,  in  accordance  with  your  own  proposition,  a  hundred  thousand  gulden 

I'll  broolv  no  contradiction,  or  woe  betide  you!  "With  regard  to  the  payment,  I  am  not  alto- 
gether disinclined  to  grant  you  a  reasonable  alIe\iution.  I  will  order  two  frigates  to  l>c  built 
at  your  expense;  it  will  then  be  only  necessary  for  you  to  pay  by  degrees  according  as  the 

luiilding  may  progress What  Moschech  ma\-  feel  inclined  to  do,  what  he  will  ])ay  to 

quiet  his  conscience  for  his  rascally  attemj)t  at  embezzlement,  he  can  consider  when  he  has 
nothing  else  to  occupy  his  mind  in  the  city  prison Forwards,  gentlemen." 

"Govaert!"  commanded  INIoritz,  with  an  earnest  mien,  "draw  your  sword,  and  if  the 
riiscals  attempt  to  escape,  spit  them  to  the  wall!" 

AVith  this  the  prince  left  the  house.  On  reaching  the  street  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his 
belt  and  fired  it  off  in  the  air." 

In  the  next  minute  the  fire-guard  were  on  the  spot. 

"Fetch  out  those  two  old  Jews,"  said  he  very  coldly,  "and  off  with  them  to  prison. 
Let  a  guard  be  placed  in  their  cell,  that  they  may  not  take  it  into  their  heads  to  hang 
themselves." 

The  soldiers  rushed  into  the  house  and  soon  returned  with  the  two  gray-bearded  rab- 
bles, who  were  thrust  in  between  two  files  of  the  fire-guard,  and  the  strictest  silence  was 
observed  while  conducting  them  to  their  destination.  Two  of  the  bearded  comrades  appeared 
with  the  pictures. 

The  prince  seemed  neither  to  notice  the  pictures  nor  the  dejected  Govaert  Flink. 
With  his  arms  crossed  over  his  chest,  Moritz  walked  slowly  on,  with  his  eyes  directed  down- 
wards, as  though  he  was  counting  the  puddles  of  water  in  the  street.  His  face  was  quite  in 
keeping  with  the  cold  morning  sky  above  him. 

With  a  subdued  tremble  Govaert  Flink  approached  him. 

"Gracious  Princel" 

Moritz  continued  his  j)ace,  but  raised  his  head. 

"It's  you,"  said  tlie  prince  morosely.    "What  do  you  want?" 

"Gracious  Prince,  I  hope  the  two  ol<l  Jews  liave  been  sufficiently  frightened,"  said 
the  painter  witii  a  faltering  voice. 

"I  know  not  what  you  mean,  and  I  ]ioi)e  that  such  fellows  as  you  will  not  trouble 
themselves  about  anything  else  than  tlieir  palette  and  brushes." 

Govaert  would  very  willingly,  even  at  the  sacrifice  of  his  pictures,  have  withdrawn 
himself  from  his  unsociable  companion,  but  he  could  not  muster  up  courage.  Sadly  de- 
pressed in  spirits,  the  painter  slipt  behind  the  man  of  power.  When  they  reached  the  jialace, 
the  Prince  ordered  him  to  be  shewn  into  a  suite  of  rooms,  which  he  was  to  appropriate  and  make 
use  of  in  any  wa^-  he  pleased;  he  further  commanded  his  master  of  the  kitchen  to  pay  him 
all  attention — and  then  left  him  to  his  own  thoughts. 

Days  and  weeks  passed  away  without  the  prince,  who  was.  growing  more  and  more 


16G  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

austere  and  strange  in  his  manner,  taking  the  least  notice  of  or  concerning  himself  in  any 
way  relative  to  the  situation  of  the  painter.  Govaert  could  not  fail,  however,  to  observe  that  he  was 
closely  watched;  for,  even  if  he  went  out  to  take  a  short  walk,  it  could  not  he  effected  unless 
he  had  a  written  pennission  from  the  jinnee's  aid-de-camp,  which  document  contained  detailed 
directions  as  to  where  the  person  to  whom  it  referred  must  he  found  at  a  certain  time 
and  place.  Govaert  was  almost  in  despair  when  he  thought  of  the  impossibility  of  dis- 
covering the  fate  of  Arpa,  now  bereft  of  her  father. 

About  two  months  after  that  night  on  which  Flink  had,  in  so  unusual  a  manner, 
made  the  acquaintance  of  tlie  Prince  of  Orange,  the  sentinel,  who  stood  in  tlic  corridor,  an- 
nounced to  the  painter  a  visitor.  A  lady  immediately  stcpjied  forward,  whom,  in  spite  of  the 
twilight,  for  evening  had  just  set  in,  Flink  recognized  as  his  beloved,  bathed  in  tears.  Her 
companion,  a  little  elderly  Jew,  with  his  fur  cap  in  his  hand,  stood  silently  at  the  door. 

Arpa  suffered  the  embraces  of  the  young  man,  but  afterwards  Utvc  herself  from 
his  arms. 

"May  this  be  a  sacrifice  rendered  to  the  rcmcmijrance  of  the  tomb!"  whispered 
.Vrpa.  "It  was  not  love  but  duty  which  brought  me  hither.  I  iiave  a  terrible  secret  to  com- 
municate to  you.  It  concerns  the  Prince  of  Orange.  You  are  his  favourite,  and  you  will  be 
able  to  break  it  to  him  without  being  afraid  of  losing  your  head  for  your  jiains,  or   running 

the   risk   of  ending  your  days   in   a   prison As    I    am   about   to    follow  my  husband 

to  Spain " 

"Your  husband!"  cried  Govaert  [lanic  striken,  at  the  same  time  letting  go  Arpa's 
hand.  "Who  has  dared  to  tear  you  away  from  me?  Where  is  the  robber  of  my  only  earthly 
hapjiiness?" 

"Look  at  this  man!"  said  Arpa  painfully  tranquil.  "It  is  too  late — it  is  too  late 
Govaert!    And  what  is  the  despised  daughter  of  Juda  to  you?" 

A  pause  followed. 

"I  will  endeavour  through  you  to  do  the  prince  a  great  service  by  inducing  him  to 
pardon  my  father If  Kabbi  Ben  Jussuf  be  not  released  from  prison,  and  set  at  per- 
fect liberty  before  the  next  new  moon,  he  must  die " 

"Who — ■ 1  implore  you " 

"The  Prince  Moritz.  Impress  upon  him  the  iinpossiliility  of  escape  from  the  avenger, 
if  he  persists  in  misusing  his  power  and  continues  to  oppress  the  innocent.  And  now, 
adieu!" 

Ciovaert  would  have  embraced,  detained  Arpa,  but  the  little  Jew  came  in  bet^\een 
and  conducted  away  his  wife. 

Govaert  hesitated  a  long  time  before  he  imparted  this  mysterious  secret  of  Arpa's  to 
the  prince.  He  confined  himself  to  imi)loring  pardon  for  the  Spanish  Rabbi,  but  his  entreaties 
were  met  by  such  a  repulse  that  he  did  not  venture  to  renew  them. 

The  time  was  drawing  on  for  the  appearance  of  the  new  moon,  but  the  Jews  still  re- 
mained incarcerated.  A  vague  report  was  sjircad  that  some  evil  threatened  the  prince.  This 
ominous  prediction  was  subsequently  verified — the  Prince  of  Orange  died  April  23d,  1625, 
and  very  little  doubt  is  entertained  that— he  was  poisoned. 


Zucas  ^^an-J^^da^z 


a^^&/i;^..-'--^^;,235i5%J<:^Z/_Z^         (^Ji%^^S<^?^i/<^-'^^:^<«*9K<%%«^/2^V^ 


OracktiYerla^  cL  EnJIisdien 


n 


KMl'KliiiK    MAXIMILIAN,    AKTKK    I.UKAS    VAN    I.KVDKN.  167 

Tlie  first  measures  tnUen  by  liis  successor  were  to  set  at  liberty  the  numerous  pri- 
soners, whose  only  crime  had  l)een  to  excite  the  suspicion  or  the  avarice  of  a  prince,  who, 
instead  of  in  youth  being  ruled  by  the  genius  of  magnanimity,  in  his  old  days  became 
governed  by  the  demon  of  despotic  cruelty. 


EMPEROR  MAXIMILIAN, 


AKTKR 

LOKAS  VAN  LEYDEN. 


This  master  is  the  characteristic  type  of  the  Dutch  school  of  the  sixteenth  century. 
lie  may  be  called  the  Diirer  of  Holland.  During  the  fourteenth  Century  the  Netherlandish 
school  was  intimately  connected  with  its  "Alma  mater,"  the  German.  The  symbolic  style 
prevailed.  The  figures  of  holy  persons,  in  former  days  almost  invariably  drawn  in  the 
<'Iumsy  manner  ordered  by  ecclesiastical  tradition,  were  now  endowed  with  all  the  mystic 
trifles  of  the  subtle  and  fantastic  scholiasts.  An  insane  transcendentalism  vanrjuished  also  in 
the  field  of  art  every  attempt  to  apply  the  sound  principles  of  rendering  in  a  true  manner 
the  appearance  of  nature. 

With  John  van  Eyck  came  the  great  line  of  demarcation  between  the  two  periods  of 
art.  This  arose  from  an  apparently  very  simple  circumstance.  The  brothers  Eyck  had  dis- 
covered the  art  of  adapting  oil  colour,  which  gave  a  more  natural  appearance  to  their 
pictures,  and,  this  having  been  once  introduced,  the  conventional  and  tyjncal  conceptions  of 
subjects  rapidly  fell  into  desuetude.  The  utterly  false-modelled  and  stereotyped  figures  of 
tradition  gave  place  to  the  more  natural  and  correctly  drawn  figures  from  real  life.  A  new 
style  in  the  portrayal  of  sacred  figures  sprung  up;  they  were  young  men  and  maidens  in 
the  full  bloom  and  freshness  of  youth,  simple  or  noble,  animated  or  dejected,  according  to 
the  sul)ject  of  the  picture  or  the  pleasure  of  the  painter.  They  were  made  to  resemble 
"God's  own  creatures,"  and  the  figure  of  a  saint  was  depicted  with  feeling,  approacliing  more 
to  tlie  resemblance  of  "the  most  Holy  of  heaven  and  earth,"  exhibiting  those  sublime  emotions 
of  the  soul  which  we  necessarily  look  for  in  the  persons  of  saints. 

The  rigid  element  of  religious  culture  began  to  dissolve.  The  inaccessible  husk  which 
contained  the  living  seeds  of  Christianity  opened  itself  by  degrees  to  the  arguments  of  ge- 
nius, and,  in  the  fourteenth  century,  instead  of  scholasticism,  we  find  ajipear  a  depth  of  feeling 
and  pious  enthusiasm  in  the  portrayal  of  the  figures  taken  from  sacred  history. 

The  introduction  of  scenes  from  real  life,  the  portrait-like  representation  of  figures, 
the  attention  paid  to  the  rules  of  drawing,  colouring,  and  i)crspective,  opened  a  new  road  to 
art.    The  immediate  successors  of  the  Eyck's  had  already  commenced  to  make  it  a  j)iini'iple 


1G8  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIEXXA. 

to  throw  into  their  pictures  the  effect  of  truthfulness  to  nature;  and  in  the  Netherlands,  as 
early  as  the  commencement  of  the  sixteenth  century,  portraits  of  persons  without  reference  to 
religion  as  worthy  productions  of  art. 

Lukas  van  Leyden  may  be  designated  as  the  originator  of  that  new  genre  amongst 
the  Netherlanders;  for  through  him  this  novelty  in  art  was  cultivated  by  the  Dutch  school. 
Besides  his  mythological  pictures,  he  painted  some  really  good  genre  subjects,  a  few  of  which  we 
shall  mention.  A  man  carrying  a  burning  torch  by  the  side  of  a  woman,  while  a  warrior  is 
following:  a  woman  Jilaying  on  the  guitar,  a  man  accompanying  her  on  the  violin:  a  quack 
operating  on  the  ear  of  a  peasant:  a  fool,  behind  him  a  man  with  two  children  at  his  back: 
a  woman  carrying  a  child  on  her  shoulder  and  leading  a  donkey':  a  boy  blowing  a 
trumpet  and  two  naked  children  dancing:  men  and  women  at  a  table  gambling  (in  the  Pem- 
broke Gallery),  &c.,  &c. 

This  painter  was  very  fertile  in  portraits.  In  his  scripture  pieces  he  introduces  only 
a  natural  personality,  genuine  Leyden  figures;  yet,  he  understood  the  art  of  endowing  them 
with  true  expression,  even  when  the  forms  of  the  faces,  for  portraiture,  were  insufficient  to 
carry  out  his  intention;  he  always  selected  those  which  suited  the  character  he  intended  to 
represent. 

The  observant  eye  of  this  master  especially  qualified  him  for  portrait  painting.  In 
this  department  of  art  the  portrait  of  Maximilian  I.,  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery,  may  be  con- 
sidered as  one  of  his  master-pieces.  The  quiet  dignity,  thoughtful,  mild  gravity,  and  firm- 
ness of  resolution  for  which  this  monarch  was  so  distinguished,  are  admirably  delineated  in 
this  picture.  In  the  same  collection  is  an  "Ecce  Homo"  by  this  master,  which,  although  a 
work  of  great  merit  and  highly  \alued,  is  thrown  quite  into  the  shade  if  compared  with  the 
Emperor  Maximilian's  portrait.  When  Lukas  assigns  any  peculiar  character  to  his  portrait- 
figures  in  his  pictures  from  scripture  history  they  appear  to  lose  much  of  the  life-like  with 
which  he  intended  to  endow  them.  Lukas  van  Leyden  did  not  possess  the  creative  faculties 
of  John  van  Eyck,  who,  while  presenting  the  appearance  of  real  life,  conveyed  into  his  figures 
a  feeling,  an  expression,  suitable  to  the  characters  they  were  meant  to  represent.  He  was 
not  gifted  with  that  peculiarly  sensitive  and  at  the  same  time  elevated  turn  of  mind  of  his 
cotemporary  Albrecht  Diirer,  who  always  turned  his  material  to  account,  and  by  his  ingenuity 
displayed  the  inner  feelings  or  singular  characteristics  of  his  figures  so  palpably,  that  they 
cannot  be  mistaken  by  the  most  sujierficial  observer;  and,  even  in  his  most  debased  pro- 
ductions, he  exhibits  more  nobility  than  Lukas  was  able  to  develop  in  his  intended  reli- 
giously sublime  master-pieces.  When  viewing  the  pictures  of  the  Dutch  painter  we  must 
content  ourselves  with  the  clever  arrangement  and  characteristics  of  the  figures  with  respect 
to  their  attitudes.  It  was  by  no  means  a  standard  rule  with  him  to  impart  to  the  counte- 
nances any  expression  corresponding  with  the  po.sitions  of  his  figures,  though  sometimes  he 
depicted  it  with  remarkable  truthfulness.  Lukas's  knowledge  of  drawing  will  not  bear  com- 
parison with  that  of  the  "Nuremberg  lion;"'  but  there  can  be  no  question  that  he  understood 
the  art  of  painting  better  than  his  great  cotemporary.  Diirer  is  also  vastly  inferior  to  Lukas 
in  his  aerial  perspective;  consequently  his  harmony  is  very  defective. 

With  respect  to  aerial  perspective,  Lukas  van  Leyden  may  be  considered  the  first  who 
introduced  an  appearance  of  distance,  by  varying  and  softening  his  tints  so  as  to  retrogade 


EMPEKOR    MAXIMILIAN,    AFTER    LUKAS    VAN    I.EYDEN.  169 

from  the  eye  of  tlio  beholder.    This  important  service  rendered  to  art  is  in  itself  sufficient  to 
immortalize  his  name. 

This  artist  understood  how  to  carry  out  the  principle  of  aerial  jiersjicctive,  even  in  his 
etchinpis  on  co[)per  and  in  his  wood  engravings.  Vasari,  in  allusion  to  this  artist,  says:  "It 
was  scarcely  possible  by  means  of  colours  to  produce  this  effect  so  perfectly  as  Lukas  was 
able  to  display  through  the  media  of  black  and  white. 

This  painter  was  skilled  in  most  branches  connected  with  the  arts;  in  this  respect  he 
stood  very  high.  When  a  boy  he  shewed  great  promise  and  painted  with  considerable  ability. 
As  early  as  the  year  150S  he  engraved  one  of  his  own  compositions  on  copper;  at  this  time 
the  artist  was  only  fourteen  years  old.  Two  years  later  he  produced  his  two  master-pieces 
of  engraving:  St.  Antonius  approached  by  the  devil  in  the  form  of  a  beautiful  woman;  and  a 
naked  woman  catching  fleas  in  the  coat  of  her  dog.  These  pieces  are  quite  worthy  to  be 
placed  by  the  side  of  Diirei's  engravings. 

Like  Diirer,  Lukas  van  Leyden,  by  the  gi-eat  number  of  his  engravings,  has  the 
mei-it  of  having  awakened  in  the  people  a  taste  for  and  appreciation  of  art,  greater  than 
any  of  his  cotemporary  countrymen. 

Lukas  van  Leyden,  whose  proper  name  was  Lukas  Huygcns,  was  born  in  Leyden  in 
the  year  1494.  His  father,  Huygens  Jakobsz — or  Hugo,  the  son  of  Jakob — was  an  able 
painter,  who  gave  his  cliild  his  first  instruction,  but  the  latter,  in  an  incredibly  short  space 
of  time,  developed  such  extraordinary  talent  that  he  quickly  surpassed  his  father.  He 
appears  to  have  brought  with  him  into  the  world  the  art  of  drawing,  painting,  and  engraving 
both  on  copper  and  on  wood. 

Having  lost  his  father  at  an  early  age,  the  young  artist  was  consigned  to  the  care  of 
Cornelius  Engelbrecht,  whom  he  very  soon  equalled.   Harmessen  instructed  him  in  engraving 
.  on  copper,  and  a  clever  goldsmith  is  said  to  have  materially  assisted  him  with  his  advice  in 
the  art  of  wood  engraving  and  the  use  of  the  burin. 

In  the  year  1510  the  artist's  powers  seem  to  have  been  fully  developed,  and  he  pro- 
duced his  "Ecce  Homo."  Finer  or  firmer  drawing  than  that  displayed  in  the  heads  of  "The 
Adoration  of  the  Kings,"  which  immediately  followed,  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  work  of  this 
master.  From  this  period  he  painted  an  uninterrupted  succession  of  pictures  till  his  death, 
which  took  place  in  the  year  1533. 

Lukas  van  Leyden  attempted  every  branch  of  art;  he  painted  lioth  in  water  and  oil 
colours,  on  canvas,  wood,  and  glass — on  the  latter  with  great  success — and  practised  every 
known  kind  of  engraving. 

He  was  well  remunerated  both  for  his  pictures  and  his  plates.  With  respect  to  the 
latter,  he  never  suffered  an  impression,  that  was  not  quite  perfect,  to  go  out  of  his  hands ;  lie 
preferred  burning  it,  "or  would  even  destroy  the  plate,  rather  than  issue  an  imperfect  production 
to  the  public;  it  is  therefore  not  surprizing  that  many  of  the  engravings  became  rarities  even 
during  the  life  time  of  the  artist. 

Galleries  of  Vienna-  22 


170  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  life  of  Lukas,  who  married  early,  offers  no  striking  phases  for  the  biographer  to 
dilate  upon;  it  is,  however,  gratifying  to  know  that  he  enjoyed  a  remarkable  degree  of  pros- 
perity. He  made  an  excursion  to  Zealand,  Flanders,  and  Brabant,  and  this  was  performed 
at  an  immense  expense,  a  vessel  having  been  magnificently  fitted  up  for  the  occasion.  We 
should  not  have  referred  to  this  single  circumstance  in  the  otherwise  connnon  course  of  life 
of  Lukas,  were  it  not  that  he  had  an  opportunity  of  meeting  with  Albrecht  Diirer.  It  seems, 
the  two  great  cotemporary  painters  met  together  at  Antwerp,  but  the  German  does  not  aji- 
pear  to  have  made  any  remarkable  impression  upon  the  Dutchman. 

A  parallel  has  often  been  drawn  between  these  two  masters  in  point  of  genius; 
this,  however,  will  not  hold:  the  versatility  of  talent  that  each  dis]>layed  would  be  nearer  the 
mark.  In  the  fundamental  points  of  artistic  education,  and,  more  than  that,  the  elevated 
mind  and  nobleness  of  conception,  Diirer  is  infinitely  superior. 


CHRIST  HEALING  THE  SICK  WOMAN, 


PAUL  VERONESE. 


In  most  of  the  productions  of  Paul  Veronese  we  discover  his  love  for  pomp  and 
magnificence.  His  pictures  are  discernible  from  a  distance  as  they  allure  the  eye  by  the 
brilliancy  of  their  colours,  and,  the  nearer  we  approach  them,  surrounding  objects  for  a  time 
wear  a  sombre  aspect.  Noble  forms  of  figures  in  rich  and  costly  apparel  meet  us  on  all 
sides,— all  is  life  and  activity — the  collective  splendour  of  the  aristocratic  world  of  Upper  Italy  in 
the  sixteenth  century  is  offered  to  our  view,  illumined  by  a  broad  steady  light  which,  in  freshness 
and  pearly  clearness,  may  be  compared  with  that  of  the  morning  sun  on  a  bright  summer's 
day.  Tlie  figures  betray  no  forced  or  affected  arrangement,  but  all  is  presented  with  a  pleasing 
and  dignified  propriety.  Neither  are  we  startled  by  any  outrageous  effect  of  light,  but  a 
charming  serenity  prevails  throughout  the  piece.  The  light  is  so  carefully  managed  and  dis- 
tributed over  the  picture  that,  with  the  judicious  and  cautious  use  of  shadow,  it  harmonizes 
delicately  with  the  colours  and  produces  a  cheerful  and  pleasing  effect. 

The  compositions  of  Paul  Vei'onese  are  generally  rich  in  figures;  their  arrangement 
always  agreeable  and  natural:  the  figures  in  themselves,  for  the  most  part,  possess  no  intel- 
lectual character,  no  jiaramount  importance;  indeed,  sometimes,  they  lay  so  little  claim  to  in- 
dividuality that  we  are  prone  to  imagine  them  placed  there  as  figurants,  for  the  specific  pur- 


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ClIKIST    IIKAI.IXC;    TIIIO    SICK     WOMAN.     AFTKli     VAVL    VKIiOXESE.  171 

pose  of  displaying  the  magnificence  of  their  dresses.  However  tliis  idea  may  Iiold  good  in 
«omc  respects,  it  cannot  be  said  that  they  arc  intrusive  or  tend  in  any  way  to  disturb  the 
harmony  of  the  whole:  rather  let  us  admit  that  they  give  weight  to  tlie  scene  in  general, 
and  their  plastic,  graceful  attitudes  jjrove  that  they  belong  to  the  superior  class.  Veronese 
sometimes,  however,  imbues  his  heads  with  a  true  characteristic  ex23ression,  strongly  de- 
scriptive of  intense  feelings  or  the  pure  devotional  thoughts  which  are  working  in  the  mind 
of  the  subjects  before  us.  His  heads  are  truly  natural,  and,  even  in  his  allegorical  and 
mythological  scenes,  he  does  not  always  adhere  to  the  great  style,  which  requires  nothing 
but  what  is  simply  necessary;  he  contrives  to  introduce  something  more  than  is  absolutely 
required  for  the  accomplishment  and  carrying  out  of  his  original  idea.  Paul  Veronese  there- 
fore did  not  practice  the  genuine  style  of  the  Italian  school,  which,  in  his  best  days,  was  still 
closely  followed ;  nor  did  he,  like  his  cotemporary  Tizian,  resort  to  the  representations  of 
blooming  sensuality,  sufficient  of  themselves  to  satisfy  those  beholders  who  look  for  nothing 
further  than  for  a  rather  external  beauty,  void  of  any  particular  meaning. 

Veronese  is  the  painter  of  refined  gorgeousness:  he  surrounds  his  figures  with  all  the 
requisites  which  social  refinement  presents.  AVe  find  in  his  pictures  the  nobility,  with  the  full 
display  of  ostentation  and  picturesque  costumes,  of  the  sixteenth  century;  warriors,  arms, 
trophies,  &c.,  and  splendid  buildings  fill  up  the  scene.  All  looks  cheerful ;  an  unalloyed  senti- 
ment of  pleasure  prevails, — a  full  possession  of  everything  which  conduces  to  the  enjoyment 
of  life  is  here  embodied  in  its  most  refined  sense.  This  conventional  clement,  so  peculiar  to 
this  master,  and  introduced  in  the  fore-ground  without  any  cei-emony  in  his  most  celebrated 
oft-repeated,  pictures  of  "The  Mai-riage  at  Canaan",  has  somewhat  of  a  eold  eflfect:  this 
feeling,  however,  soon  vanishes  on  directing  oiu"  thoughts  to,  and  considering  the  intention  of 
the  painter;  we  then  observe  the  wonderful  stream  of  the  breadth  of  light,  and  the  ex- 
traordinary ability  displayed  in  the  arrangement  of  the  tints. 

In  tiie  management  and  disposition  of  his  lights,  Veronese  is  as  great  as  in  his  power 
over  the  diversity  of  colours  which  he  used  in  producing  them.  His  drawing  is  almost  al- 
ways correct,  at  all  events  we  never  discover  anything  palpably  false  or  offensive  to  the 
sight;  it  is  clear,  firm,  and  sharp.  In  comparison  with  the  pearly  tones  diffused  through  the 
l)ictures  of  this  master  in  his  best  days,  the  warm  tones  of  the  other  great  Venetian  painters 
appear  heavy.  The  ease  with  which  he  handled  his  pencil  and  the  freshness  of  his  colouring 
arc  alike  admirable.  There  is  nothing  indefinite;  what  he  once  touched  in  remained  in  his 
picture,  he  hit  alia  prima  the  right  tone. 

One  of  the  most  beautiful  pictures  by  this  master,  and  which  is  more  loftily  conceived 
than  most  of  his  other  pieces,  is  the  "Christ  healing  the  Sick  AVoman.''  Oiu-  Saviour  has  just 
said  "zcho  touched  me?" ;  the  sick  woman  falls  upon  her  knees,  and,  witli  outspread  anus  and 
countenance  full  of  resignation  and  confidence  in  the  help  of  Jesus,  patiently  waits  till  he 
shall  address  her. 

The  "Rape  of  Europa"  is  quite  as  fine  as  the  picture  just  mentioned,  and  is  con- 
sidered the  most  magnificent  of  all  his  mythological  j)ieces. 

The  real  name  of  this  painter  was  Cagliari,  and  he  was  called  after  the  city  of  Veronn, 
■where  he  was  born,  in  the  year  152S.    He  was  a  scholar  of  his  father,  a  sculptor,  and  was 

22  * 


172  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

intended  to'  be  brought  up   to  that   profession.     Antonio    Badiale,  under  whom  he   studied 
painting,  was  his  uncle. 

Veronese  stands  alone;  for,  of  all  his  cotemporaries,  his  conceptions  and  style  of 
painting  were  perfectly  original.  His  colouring  is  a  pattern  for  all  future  ages.  He  died  in 
Venice  in  the  year  15SS. 


MADONNA, 


CASLO  DOLCE. 


Of  the  Italian  painters,  who  in  the  seventeenth  century  succeeded  in  raising  them- 
selves to  a  high  position  in  the  art,  Carlo  Dolce  is  one  of  the  most  known.  He  represents 
the  chaste  conceptions  of  tenderness,  meakness,  and  sweetness.  Dolce  is  as  great  in  ter- 
restrial portraiture  as  his  antipode,  Angelo  da  Fiesole,  appears  in  the  regions  of  a  ce- 
lestial world.  While  naturalism  prevailed  in  Italy,  and  the  painters  sought  to  outvie  each 
other  in  their  vigorous  productions,  Dolce  contented  himself  with  working  as  his  feelings 
dictated,  often  displaying  in  his  pictures  a  delicacy  of  sentiment  both  affecting  and  poetical. 
Great  merit  is  due  to  this  painter,  inasmuch  as  he  neither  sacrificed  his  feelings,  nor  ever 
shewed  an  affectation  of  sentiment.  To  this  point  he  strictly  adhered.  Hence  it  is,  that 
the  corporeal  and  the  mental  in  his  figures  so  naturally  assimilate;  their  outward  forms 
seem  to  disclose  the  inspiration  which  is  working  within  them — a  property  which  other 
painters  have,  at  most,  endowed  single  figures  with.  It  would,  certainly,  be  punishment 
for  the  eye  to  rest  any  length  of  time  on  a  collection  of  Dolce's  pictures;  but  they  ap- 
pear as  exceedingly  pleasing,  quiet,  charming  oases  amongst  pieces  of  greater  power  and 
significance  of  contents.  When  Dolce,  in  his  happy  moments,  adds  bold  relief  to  the  chaste 
sentimentality  of  his  figures,  as  in  the  pictures  of  "Christ  breaking  Bread,"  and  "Herodias  with 
the  Head  of  John,"  he  ascends  to  the  truly  poetic.  Those  pictures  of  Dolce's,  where  the 
affecting  borders  on  the  pathetic,  arc,  however,  scarce.  He  is  mostly  so  engrossed  by  his  par- 
tiality for  the  amiable,  the  sweet  serenity  of  mind,  that  he  is  the  favorite  of  the  women,  and 
of  all  those  who  prefer  to  see  the  sentiment  of  the  picture  ready  prepared  for  them,  instead 
of  shaking  up  their  own  drowsy  feeling,  and  endeavouring  to  discover  it  by  virtue  of  the 
idea  and  vigour  presented  in  the  picture.  Dolce  will  never  fail  to  interest  those  who  possess 
a  particle  of  sympathy. 

It  is  singular,  though  easily  accounted  for,  that  the  English  have  always  been  the 
greatest  admirers  of  Dolce.  This  nation,  reproached  for  its  coldness  and  want  of  sentiment, 
has  always  shewn  a  natural  predilection  for  that  art  which  presented  a  supplement  to  its 
weaker  qualities.    The  perverse  musical  ear  of  the  English  was  never  partial  to  the  so-called 


'///  /,-  // ,/ 


MADONNA,  AFIKK  ('AKI>0  DOLCE.  173 

I'lassical  music,  in  whicli  tlie  melody  is  weakly  expressed;  hut  delij^lued  above  all  thinj^s  with 
the  light,  varying,  soft,  insinuating  Italian  inusio.  Tiie  English  language  is  lar  livjni  eu- 
l)honeous,  but  well  calculated  for  brevity  and  jirecision  of  expression.  The  chaste  and  soft 
expression  of  their  ]ioctry  has  always  been  loved  by  the  English:  while  the  substantial  and 
])Owerful  poets,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher  and  Shakespeare,  were  almost  forgotten  fifty  years 
after  they  died,  and  not  till  intelligent  literary  criticism  on  their  works  appeared  did  the 
people  begin  to  re-estimate  them.  Thus  it  was  with  painting;  the  less  vigorous,  effeminate 
Van  Dyck — if  their  fancy  be  called  in  question — the  Britons  preferred  to  the  Titan  Kubens; 
Claude  Lorrain,  with  his  poetical  repose,  the  magic  of  his  soft,  affected  light,  stands  higher 
than  all  the  Backhuj'zens,  and  Everdingens,  and  Salvator  Rosas,  notwithstanding  the  great 
power  of  the  latter;  and  the  trumpery  miniature  pieces  of  the  Netherlanders  have  always 
found  their  warmest  admirers  in  England. 

Dolce  is  never  more  exquisite  than  when  he  can  revel  in  tender  sentiments.  His  best 
works  are  his  pictures  of  Cecilia — the  saint  entirely  absorbed  in  her  sensations  seems  carried 
away  by  the  tones  she  produces  on  the  instrument.  The  painter  here  exceeds  the  bounds  of 
merely  picturesque  painting. 

In  the  delineation  of  painful,  sorrowful  emotions  Dolce  is  very  great.  His  "Christ  on 
the  Mount"  and  his  "Mater  dolorosa,"  a  subject  which  he  has  frequently  repeated,  are 
sufficient  to  confirm  our  statement. 

Carlo  Dolce  died,  at  the  age  of  seventy,  in  Florence,  16S6. 


LUCRETIA, 


T  1 Z  I A  N. 


It  would  be  difficult  to  find  words  by  which  to  convey  anything  like  a  satisfactory  de- 
scription of  Tizian's  pictures.  We  may  analyse  the  extravagant,  transcendental  subjects  of  a 
Michel  Angclo,  and  through  the  medium  of  words  give  an  idea  of  the  subtle  compositions  of 
Raphael,  or  charactcristize  a  Correggio;  these  may  comparatively  be  easily  dilated  upon, 
because  they  offer  something  that  we  can  seize  upon  at  once;  their  wonderful  effects  of  light, 
shade,  and  coloiu'.  But  Tizian  is  seldom  to  be  described  by  words,  and  when  he,  as  he 
sometimes  is,  is  super-excelleut,  no  words  that  we  can  call  up  would  do  him  justice.  On  our 
first  attempt  we  are  apt  to  imagine  that  a  picture  of  Correggio,  in  which  the  outward 
•conditions    under   which    the    figures    appear — light    and    air— form    the    main    part,    are 


174  THE  GALLERIES  OF  VIENNA. 

more  difficult  to  render  perceptible  liy  means  of  rhetorical  description  than  a  work  of 
Tizian,  that  operates  through  the  figures  themselves,  and  in  which  the  effect  of  light — 
less  so  the  air — is  displayed  for  the  purpose  only  of  bringing  out  the  real  beauty  of  the 
figures.  Poetry  possesses  more  power  in  the  representation  of  the  effects  of  light  and  shade, 
than  for  the  realizing  of  forms  with  which  colouring  is  inseparably  connected.  Li^ht  and 
shade,  like  music,  addresses  our  sensations  in  general,  and  our  tenderest  feelings  may  be 
affected  by  words,  but  the  form  of  beauty  cannot  be  conveyed  to  tiie  mind  through  any 
other  medium  than  the  eye. 

Tizian  is  the  painter  who  represents  corporeal  beauty  in  its  most  fascinating  form. 
His  pictures  are  entirely  independent  of  any  preceding  action;  they  require  no  story  in  the 
shape  of  explanation;  we  have  but  to  view  them,  and  they  at  once  create  an  interest.  His 
.-■l)Iendid  figures  of  women  and  of  youths  charm  by  the  mere  beaut)-  of  their  appearance;  no 
further  association  of  ideas  is  wanted.  It  is  a  fact  worthy  of  remark  that  Tizian,  when  he 
attemjjted  to  infuse  into  his  figures  an  expression  of  sentiment  working  in  his  own  mind, 
never  could  effect  it  without  injury  to  them.  This  is  the  more  singular,  as  this  power  is 
tiie  touchstone  of  other  artists;  the  action  of  the  piece  is  the  first  consideration.  To  effect 
this  everything  must  give  way,  even  though  sometimes  the  attitude  of  tiie  figiu'es  suffers,  in 
fact,  the  beauty  and  form  in  Tizian  constitute,  or  rather  are  substituted  for,  action. 

Tlie  auiique  discovers  the  tenor  of  fine  feeling  as  well  as  the  personal  reality.  There 
is  every  indication  of  intellectuality.  Position  and  action  are  brought  down  to  a  simple  me- 
dium, and  rather  suggest  the  character  than  really  represent  it:  there  is  nothing  to  interfere  with 
the  beauty  of  the  figures.  To  preserve  this,  if  the  })ortrayal  of  character  be  not  sufficiently 
depicted,  an  attribute  is  introduced;  so  that  the  stillness  of  the  piece  may  not  be  interrupted. 

Tizian  goes  to  work  in  a  similar  way;  he,  in  his  best  days,  avoided  all  action,  all  de- 
velopment of  the  passions  which  might  tend  to  affect  the  beauty  of  his  human  figures.  To 
secure  the  beauty  and  force  of  his  figures,  he  subdues  every  group,  no  matter  what  action 
they  are  intended  to  illustrate — that  is  quite  a  secondary  consideration. 

Tizian's  female  beauties  are  seldom  or  never,  like  the  antique  models,  made  to  portray 
the  expression  of  any  refined  sentiment.  They  appear  in  a  state  of  existence  expressive 
of  the  highest  degree  of  happiness.  Tizian's  figures,  mentally,  scarcely  difier  from  each 
other — they  represent  an  unalloyed  state  of  happy  existence,  and  enjoy  an  uninterrupted 
career  of  Arcadian  bliss.  He  exhibits  them  with  all  the  appropriate  contingencies  to  con- 
vince us  that  they  belong  to,  or  rather  are  creatures  of,  this  world.  The  countenances  of  his 
Aphrodites,  Dianas,  Galateas,  his  Madonnas  and  his  female  saints,  are  characterized  with 
such  fidelity  to  nature,  that  all  the  sublime  feeling  of  indifference  to  earthly  enjoyments 
seem  to  be  banished.  The  Olympians  and  the  Christian  saints  have  alike  the  same  sensa- 
tions, their  pulses  beat  in  all  the  vigour  of  youth  as  ours.  The  inanimate  reign  of  indivi- 
dualized notions  of  classical  paganism  is  metamorphosed,  by  a  stroke  of  magic,  into  a  new 
Eden,  and  the  Christian  ascetics  have  found  a  Paradise  on  earth.  Tizian  feels  no  aspira- 
tions, no  sentimentality. 

This  Venetian's  means  of  representation  are  immense — that  is,  for  his  purpose.  If  he 
had  intended  anything  else  than  what  he  represented,  these  means  would  scarcely  have  been 


LICRETIA,    AFTER    TIZIAN.  1":, 

sufficient  for  a  .single  picture  so  full  of  nicaiiinir  nnd  fo  jiiirc  in  sentiment  as  Haphael's.  Xo 
allusion  need  lie  made  to  Tizian's  drawing — all  is  jiaintcd  till  worked  up  to  the  beautiful 
effect  of  nature.  We  may  Just  as  well  say  of  a  living  being  that  it  is  "well  drawn"  as  of  a 
figure  of  Tizian's.  All  the  sharp  outlines  are  melted  into  the  mass  by  the  power  of  the  sur- 
face which  meets  the  eye.  No  painter  possesses  the  art  of  producing  anything  similar.  In 
some  of  his  figures,  frequently  in  the  best  painted  parts  of  his  pictures,  Rubens  conies  very 
near,  but  he  never  reaches  him.  The  great  Netherlander  strove  to  keep  up  the  optical  illu- 
sion; this  is  very  perceptible  in  most  of  his  works,  for  he  oversteps  nature  in  his  high  relief, 
while  Tizian  is  very  sparing  of  his  effects,  in  order  to  maintain  a  simple  degree  of  grandeur. 
By  this  moderation  the  eye  is  not  able  to  penetrate  any  ulterior  object  of  the  painter:  it 
cannot  peep  behind  the  scenes — instead  of  enjoying  the  representation  intended  for  the 
spectator — no  examination  can  be  entered  into  as  to  the  means  by  which  the  artist  has 
worked  out  his  design. 

Tizian's  colouring  has  always  been  considered  a  mystery;  it  has  ever  created  astonish- 
ment, and  is  beyond  the  power  of  imitation.  His  colouring  is  peculiar  in  its  way — warm, 
rich,  partaking  of  all  the  spirit  and  freshness  of  nature,  and,  at  the  same  time,  free  from  all 
aj)pearance  of  any  attempt  to  excel  her.  When  placed  by  the  side  of  Rubens  or  Giorgione, 
Tizian's  pictures,  many  of  them  at  least,  look  comparatively  dull.  They  seem  to  lose  in  point 
of  relief;  the  colours  of  the  flesh  appear  somewhat  faded,  and  I'ail  in  brilliancy.  The  greatest 
effect  is  on  the  side  where  the  lights  act  independently  without  nielting  into  the  local  colours, 
and  where  the  strongest  shadows  are  called  in  to  their  assistance.  Tizian  is  very  cautious  in 
the  use  of  accessories.  His  works  may  be  coni])arcd  with  a  ros\-chccked  girl  in  the 
full  but  quiet  light  of  a  golden  summer  evening;  Rubens,  on  the  other  hand,  too  often  re- 
minds us  of  an  actress  thoroughly  rouged,  whose  figure  is  acted  upon  by  the  glaring  light  of 
the  lamps.  Giorgione,  too,  makes  less  of  his  lights  than  in  his  general  glow  of  coloiu-  and 
deep  shadows.  The  more  lasting  effect,  the  charm  of  youthful  freshness,  which  ever  attracts 
the  eye  and  operates  on  the  senses,  is  found  in  greater  perfection  in  the  works  of  Tizian. 
One  of  this  masters  pictures,  viewed  by  itself  and  not  disturbed  by  other  works  superabund- 
ant in  gaudiness  of  colour,  will  maintain  its  character  for  freshness,  and  the  figures  have  a 
life-like  appearance.  The  voluptuous  forms  display  themselves  so  coaxingly  before  us,  and 
quite  subdue  all  the  extravagant  pomp  of  colour  and  of  light. 

The  aspiring  masters  who  studied  the  Italian  style  of  colouring  were  always  unde- 
cided whom  they  should  choose  as  a  pattern.  The  bold  Tintoretto  presses  forward  and 
comes  nearest  to  Tizian,  and  his  free  draw  ing  is  imposing  and  attractive.  But,  on  a  closer  exami- 
nation, Tintoretto  cannot  conceal  that  his  colouring  is  somewhat  superficially  laid  on  to  his 
pictures,  that  the  flesh  tints  are  seldom  suitable  to  his  figures,  and  that  his  relief,  scarcely  in 
any  of  his  more  animated  representations,  is  so  carried  out  as  to  corresjiond  with  his  violent 
fore-shortening  and  exquisite  drawing. 

Giorgione  da  Castelfranco  possesses  an  extraordinary  talent  in  the  management  and 
arrangement  of  his  colours,  and  more  especiallj-  is  this  to  be  seen  in  his  melting  in  of  the 
flesh  tints.  But  whatever  charm  this  may  impose  of  itself,  he  cannot  stand  his  ground 
against  his  scholar,  whose  taste  chimed  in  with  his  natiu-ality,  for  his  drawing  is  incorrect, 
and  his  draperies  inelegant  and  confused. 


!7G  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Paul  Veronese  is  a  much  more  powerful  rival  of  Tizian.  His  noble  figures,  his  fine 
heads,  of  men  in  particular,  his  splendid  draperies,  his  i)old  execution  and  hrilliancy 
ot  colouring,  often  raise  him  to  true  greatness.  Veronese  divides  the  palm  with  Tizian 
as  the  first  colourist  in  the  literal  meaning  of  the  word.  Besides  this  Veronese  engages 
our  thoughts  by  the  richness  of  his  compositions.  These  allowed  him  the  unconstrained 
use  of  his  colours,  and  afforded  him  opportunity  of  the  greatest  display  in  the  variety 
of  his  tints. 

The  manner  of  painting  which  distinguishes  Cagliari  from  Tizian  is  discernible  at 
first  sight.  Wc  never  fully  appreciate  the  charming  warmth  diffused  through  Tizian's  com- 
positions till  we  place  one  of  his  pictures  by  the  side  of  a  Veronese.  Tizian's  subjects  are 
under  the  influence  of  a  sunny  evening  sky,  when  the  blazing  light  of  the  atmosphere  of  de- 
parting day  seems  to  mingle  with  the  red-golden  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  when  the  little  va- 
riegated dancing  colours  amalgamate  and  expand  into  a  broad  glow.  A  Veronese  breaks 
through  his  cold  mists,  and  leads  us  under  the  scorching  rays  of  a  mid-day  sun  to  shew  us 
all  his  splendour,  like  the  pi'oud  peacock  spreading  forth  his  feathers  that  they  may  glitter 
in  the  sun. 

Instead  of  the  general  bloom  which  renders  Tizian's  pictures  so  luxuriant  to  the  view, 
Veronese,  in  his  nude  figures,  introduces  a  delicate  hue  of  pearly  grey  tones.  We  can  easily 
discern  how  this  fresh  fine  gradation  of  tone  is  laid  on,  and  is  carried  over  from  the  flesh 
into  the  drapery,  tlirough  the  architectural  parts  into  the  clouds.  Tizian's  gradations  are 
likewise  very  delicate,  and  they  appear  to  have  less  body,  for  they  are  spread  over  the  sur- 
face like  a  transparent  veil,  the  passions  glowing  beneath  it. 

Tizian  as  well  as  Veronese  attained  a  high  degree  of  perfection.  The  former  pos- 
sesses that  magic  grace  of  which  the  latter,  in  his  outward  displays  of  pomp  and  magnificence, 
is  wholly  destitute.  His  figures  do  not  present  that  loveliness,  that  warm  freshness  of 
youth,  so  exquisitely,  so  deliciously  embodied  in  those  of  Tizian. 

The  Belvedere  Gallery  contains  several  valuable  pictures  by  this  master.  From 
amongst  them  we  must  first  mention  the  "Lucretia"  pointing  a  dagger  at  her  breast.  Behind 
the  dishonoured  wife  of  Tarquinius  Collatinus  appears  the  smiling  countenance  of  a  man 
who  desires  to  prevent  her  from  the  fulfilment  of  her  horrid  purpose.  This  figure,  repre- 
senting Sextus  Tarquinius  Superbus,  is  the  portrait  of  Tizian  himself. 

A  most  beautiful  figure  is  that  of  "Danae."  The  king's  daughter  is  reclining  on  a 
couch,  embarrassed  and  astounded  by  the  golden  shower  which  she  sees  falling  around  her. 
An  old  woman  is  collecting  the  coins.  There  are  few  pictures  which  do  not  contain  something 
which  disturbs  the  effect  of  the  piece.  In  this  subject,  however,  one  perfect  harmony 
prevails. 

The  largo  "Ecce  homo,"  an  unsuccessful  composition,  is  interesting  on  account  of 
the  numerous  portraits  it  contains,  and  at  the  same  time  charmingly  painted.  The  persons 
represented  in  the  piece  are  St.  Aloysius  (Gonzaga),  with  arrows  in  hand,  offering  his  vows 
to  the  holy  virgin — one  of  the  finest  works  of  Tizian — "Christ,  and  the  Woman  taken  in 
Adultery,"  "The  Annunciation  of  the  Virgin,"  and  many  portraits.   We  must  not  overlook  a 


v,a^^^^'i>^^y  cydi'JU^^i^i^,- 


m'KE    l.inWIG    (IF    HAVAKIA,    AKTKK    CHKISTOI'II    AMIiKKfiKI>.  1 77 

(•liariain{i    picture  of  "\'enus  and  Adonis,"  a  painting  liy  a  .^cliiplar  of  Tizian's,  and  (piitc  in 
the  spirit  of  his  nia.stcr. 

In  the  Lici'litenstein  Gallery  there  arc  likewise  several  very  fine  speeiniens  of  this 
great  painter:  "A  Holy  Family,"  "St.  Kathcrine,"  "St.  Sebastian,"  and  "King  Francis  I.  oi' 
France  taken  prisoner." 


DUKE  LUDWIG  OF  BAVARIA, 


CHRISTOFH  AMBERGEK. 


This  remarkable  painter  was  born  in  the  early  part  of  the  sixteenth  century  at  Am- 
berg,  a  town  in  the  Upper  Palatinate.  The  prevailing  opinion  is  that  he  was  a  scholar  of 
Holbein's,  whose  style  of  painting  he  fully  adopted.  He  is  transjiarent  and  ^igorous,  ob- 
serving a  close  adherence  to  nature,  and,  like  Holbein,  his  great  forte  is  iu  portraits.  His 
pictures  from  the  sacred  writings  are  of  a  homely  character,  pleasingly  natural,  and  dis- 
covering an  agreeable  style  of  colouring.  Of  his  portraits  that  of  Duke  Ludwig  of  Bavaria 
is  one  of  the  finest. 


A  PEASANT'S  DWELLING, 


CORNELIUS  BEGA. 


Louis  XIV.  of  France  designated  the  figures  in  the  pictures  of  IJavid  Teuiers  the 
younger  as  "baboons  and  monkeys."  What  would  his  majesty  have  said  to  a  picture  of  Cor- 
nelius Bega? 

The  Teniers  make  no  pretensions  to  classical  form:  the  Ostades,  to  obtain 
their  picturesque  effects,  relied  chiefly  on  the  grotesque  ugliness  of  their  figures ;  and 
Adrian  Brouwer  took  a  depraved  pleasure  in  representing  heads  and  figures  so  ill-favoiu"ed 
that  we  should  feel  disposed  to  imagine  them  the  ne  plus  vlira  of  unsightliness.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  believe  that  these  masters,  who  studied  "monkeys"  as  their  models,  could  pos- 
sibly be  outdone. 


Gallerica  of  Vienna. 


178  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Cornelius  Bega,  however,  comes  forward  and  shews  us  how  httle  we  know  of  such 
'things."  Various  opinions  exist  as  to  whose  figures  are  the  ugliest.  In  this  respect  the 
French  give  Ostadc  the  preference;  the  English  maintain  that  Brouwer's  are  the  most  sin- 
irularJv  monstrous:  the  Germans  declare  Beira  as  the  tfreatest  master  of  the  'Uiisehun.'' 

In  his  figures  of  boors,  Teniers  goes  to  work  with  great  niceness.  We  recognise  by  every 
little  delicate  touch,  which  niai'ks  tlic  expression  and  form  of  the  faces,  that  the  painter 
had  an  'intention,'  that,  he  knew  perfectly  well  how  to  treat  his  subject,  and  to  use  his  pencil 
in  depicting  beauty  of  form  if  he  pleased.  In  fact,  Teniers  the  younger  painted  with  the  same 
degree  of  facility  and  apperception,  in  his  way,  as  Metzu,  Nctscher,  and  Terljurg  did  their  figures 
of  a  more  dignified  form.  His  portrayal  of  rustic  life  is  full  of  refinement.  His  "Drinkers"  and 
"Smokers"  he  manages  to  imbue  with  a  distinguishing  feature;  there  is  a  remarkable 
characteristic  about  them  which  coui'ts  the  attention  of  the  most  polished  mind,  and  insigni- 
ficant as  are  the  personages  in  themselves,  taken  abstractedly,  there  is  a  refinement,  a 
quaintness  about  them  which  is  invariably  pleasing.  It  is  scarcely  fair  to  say  that  this  master 
exaggerated,  though,  perhaps  on  the  first  view  of  one  of  his  pictures,  the  idea  may  flash 
across  our  mind;  but,  if  we  enter  dispassionately  into  the  merits  of  the  piece,  we  soon 
discover  that  Teniers,  although  singling  out  the  more  marked  peculiarities  of  his  figures, 
subdues  that  inherent  coarseness  which  his  characters  may  be  sujDposed  to  possess.  His 
heads  are  ever  varied,  and  endowed  with  meaning;  he  exercises  art  in  throwing  into  each, 
though  the  physiognomy  may  be  of  the  most  common  cast,  a  degree  of  humour  or  cunning 
Avhich  cannot  escape  our  observation,  nor  fail  to  produce  in  us  an  involuntary  smile. 

The  "good"  Ostade  does  not  reach  the  same  height  of  humourwith  Teniers.  He  takes 
his  figures  simply  as  he  finds  them,  attending  less  to  the  fine  touches  of  character  than  to 
the  management  of  light  and  shade.  This  being,  apparently,  his  chief  object  the  most  un- 
si^ditly  physiognomy  may  advantageously  be  adopted,  and  it  would  appear  that  when  Teniers 
endeavoured  to  throw  a  type  of  intellectuality  into  the  countenances  of  his  figures, 
Ostade  only  had  recourse  to  these  "baboons"  to  produce  thj  efl^ect  he  essayed  by  his 
extraordinary  management  of  cMarosmro.  This  is  the  whole  task  he  imposed  upon  himself: 
in  the  figures  there  is  nothing  whatever  to  call  forth  our  admiration. 

We  could  mention  many  of  Ostade's  works,  in  which,  if  instead  of  peasants,  mu- 
sicians, and  beggars,  he  had  given  heads  of  animals — dogs,  sheep,  or  oxen,  on  which  to  play 
off  his  fanciful  effects  of  light  and  colour,  they  would  about  equally  excite  our  interest.  It 
may,  perhaps,  be  going  too  far  to  assert  that  Ostade  outstepped  the  bounds  of  deformity 
which  nature  sometimes  presents.  If,  however,  this  be  admitted,  then  the  way  he  treated  his 
subject,  his  artistical  management,  was  the  only  resource  left  him  to  make  these  exaggerated 
deformities  appear  less  ofi'ensive. 

Adrian  Brouwer  is  a  spirit  of  another  sphere.  His  idea  is  directed  to  the  representa- 
tion of  a  momentary  effect;  he  troubles  himself  liale  about  the  characteristic  of  his  figures, 
whether  the  auxiliaries  or  surrounding  objects  properly  belong  to  the  scene  or  not.  Hij 
drunken  vagabonds  quarrel  and  fight,  or  they  dispute  about  a  card  being  falsely  played;  a 
stupid  looking  countryman  is  having  a  tooth  drawn,  or  suffering  the  agony  of  a  boil  being 
opened;  or  the  heavy  looking  doctor  is  operating  upon  some  dull  boor;  and  another  is  em- 
ploying his  wretched  instrument  in  bleeding  a  patient,  &c.   Brouwer  cannot  resist  his  strong 


A    PEASANT'S    DWELLINCI,    AKTER    CORNELIUS    llKriA.  170 

inolination  lor  tlie  iiortrayiil  of  such  scenes  of  violent  commotion;  to  tlicse  lie  devoted  all  liis 
energies,  transferred  tliemtohis  canvas  with  apparent  ease,  and  with  such  Httle  means  as  pre- 
sented flieinsclvcs  to  his  eye,  lie  ])nintcd  liis  [jicturcs,  in  which  tliere  is  no  repose;  indeed,  taken 
ahogcthcr,  they  may  be  regarded  as  confused  accidental  groups  of  figures,  without  an  intel- 
lectunl  idea  amongst  them. 

Cornelius  Bega  partakes  of  all  these  three  masters  in  his  style  of  composition  and 
colouring,  though  he  is  less  original  in  his  ideas  than  cither  of  them,  At  the  same  time, 
he  well  knew  how  to  combine  the  peculiar  characteristics  which  he  appropriated,  placing 
them,  in  his  own  way,  in  a  totally  different  light. 

Were  we  to  examine  a  series  of  Bega's  pictures,  we  should  have  no  difficulty  in  de- 
tecting parts  as  direct  imitations  of  Ostadc  or  Teniers,  and  certainly  more  frequently  than  of 
Brouwcr.  The  characters  of  the  faces  are  generally  very  strongly  marked,  although  not  so 
varied  as  those  of  Teniers.  Doubtless  Bega  took  nature  for  his  original,  but  his  fancy  in 
respect  to  the  ennobling  of  form  never  displays  itself.  Like  Ostade,  his  principal  aim  was 
excessive  care  in  the  laying  on  of  his  colour,  and  attention  to  light;  although  in  the  latter 
he  is  not  equal  to  Ostade.  And  like  Brouwer,  Bega  strove  to  introduce  emotion  into  the  faces 
— a  phase  to  which  Ostade,  and  often  Teniers,  did  not  attach  any  great  importance. 

These  emotions  whicii  Bega  conveyed  into  his  "masks,"  as  they  have  been  styled,  were 
joyful  or  tender  according  to  the  feeling  of  the  painter  at  the  moment:  he  shews  us  that  the 
hearts,  even  of  these  monsters,  were  susceptible  of  feeling.  Love  and  aspiration,  plaintive 
expression  of  sorrow,  and  the  l)oisterous  shout  of  mirth,  are  represented  by  Bega  in  his 
"wooden  dolls."  This  is  the  reasun  why  the  countenances  are  so  abominably  ugly,  for,  as  we 
have  before  observed,  he  knew  not  how  to  temper  the  crudities  of  nature. 

This  childish  joy,  this  innocent,  niiive  pleasure  in  the  children's  faces,  which  seem  as 
if  an  inexperienced  hand  had  cut  them  out  of  wood  with  a  common  pocket-knife!  This 
maternal  tenderness  expressed  in  a  countenance  which  itself  appears  to  complain  of  its  al- 
most inhuman  ugliness!  The  glance  of  love  from  speaking  eyes,  which  are  set  in  an  almost 
impoxsible  C/mxtman  mash!  And  this  grinning  look  of  tenderness  in  the  faces  of  the — 
young  gallants! 

Adrian  Ostade's  figures  lay  no  claim  to  our  sympathies.  They  give  us  in  connexion 
with  the  objects  which  surround  them  an  idea  of  a  domestic  life  entirely  belonging  to 
themselves — a  territory  where  the  beholder  is  a  stranger.  The  same  remark  will  apply  to 
Teniers,  and  even  the  mad-cap  Brouwer,  in  his  representations  of  uproarious  mirth  has 
nothing  in  the  picture  itself  which  engages  our  ideas,  or  makes  us  fancy  we  are  one  of 
the  party. 

Bega  demands  that  we  take  an  active  part  in  his  pieces.  He  strives  to  call  up  in  us 
every  feeling  that  his  figures  express.  They  have  a  definite  claim,  in  i)oint  of  sensation,  to  an 
equality  with  the  beholder,  and  that  is  the  cause  why  his  figures  appear,  not  only  ugly,  but 
really  repulsive.  The  most  good-natured  critic,  he  who  reverences  the  old  masters,  con- 
sidering them  as  the  apostles  of  art,  and  will  not  exercise  his  profane  pen  as  " correctoi',"  such 
a  critic,  we  say,  must  at  least  have  a  feeling  of  pity  for  such  abortions  as  are  represented 
in  the  pictures  by  Bega. 

23* 


180  THE  GALLERIES  OP  VIENNA. 

Ought  not  men  who  are  able  to  give  the  expression  of  such  feelings  as  Bega  por- 
trays likewise  be  able  at  least  to  see  that  such  figures  as  Bega's  are  cruelly  neglected  by 
nature?  Admitting  the  hypothesis,  the  amorous  look,  for  we  cannot  say  the  beaming  of  af- 
fection, of  such  a  monstrosity  in  the  foi-m  of  a  female  figure  disgusts  us.  Human  beings  only 
can  express  human  feelings.  When  the  artist  goes  beyond  the  natural  type  of  expression, 
whether  it  be  to  charm  or  to  agitate  our  senses,  he  produces  a  feeling  of  repulsiveness  in 
tlie  mind  of  the  beholder, — and  so  it  is  with  Bega's  figures. 

That  Cornelius  Bega  possesses  redeeming  points  none  will  venture  to  dispute,  and 
tliese  suffice  to  prevent  them  from  sinking  into  oblivion.  His  "Nation  of  Caricatures"  seems  to 
have  been  executed  with  great  facility.  This  j)ainter  is  in  invention,  and  in  varied  grouping, 
very  prolific,  and  although  he  gives  de  facto  the  same  themes,  they  are  so  varied  tliat  they 
scarcely  seem  like  repetitions. 

Bega  paid  especial  attention  to  liis  introduction  of  light.  It  is  effective  to  a  certain 
extent,  but  there  is  a  disposition  to  weakness  which  is  to  be  accounted  for  by  this  master,  as 
a  general  rule,  avoiding  contrast.  Tiie  graduation  of  tones  he  understood  well,  in  the  use 
of  which  he  shewed  much  tact  in  his  greater  compositions,  keeping  his  figures  distinct 
from  each  other,  and  by  this  ho  contrived,  to  a  great  extent,  to  conceal  his  deficiency  in 
knowledge  of  perspective.    In  this  department  of  art,  Bega  is  far  behind  Adrian  Ostade. 

Cornelius,  or  Cornelisz,  on  his  mother's  side  sprung  from  a  good  family  of  painters. 
His  mother,  Marie  Cornelisz,  was  the  daughter  of  the  painter  Cornelius  Cornelisz,  celeln-ated 
in  Harlem  under  the  name  of  Cornelius.  Bega's  father  was  a  wood  eno-raver,  and  named 
Begyn.  It  is  said  that  the  yoimg  man,  at  an  early  age,  gave  loose  to  dissipated  habits,  and 
to  such  an  incorrigible  extent,  that  his  father  found  it  expedient  to  turn  him  out  of  his  house, 
and  altogether  disowned  him.  This  circumstance  operated  so  strongly  upon  the  mind  of  the 
son,  that  he  renounced  his  name,  and  called  himself  Bega. 

This  account  seems  to  agree  with  others  written  from  time  to  time  by  various 
writers  on  art,  but  no  positive  proof  exists  of  its  correctness.  It  was  first  related  by  Hoii- 
braken ;  this  historian,  however,  has  recounted  many  circmnstances  on  which  he  was  evi- 
dently not  in  a  position  to  acquire  genuine  information.  Later  in  life,  Bega  never  complained 
of  his  father's  treatment,  nor  did  he  sjiew  any  want  of  aftection  for  him.  His  changing  his 
name  may  be  accounted  for  in  another  way,  and  with  a  degree  of  probability  greatly  tending 
to  refute  the  original  story.  Begyn  was  a  word  in  Holland  and  Lo«er  Germany  which 
signified  an  "old  woman."  Every  one  knew  the  old  Begyn  Cloister,  or  houses  in  which  aged, 
sick,  and  deformed  woman,  called  Begunen,  Beginen  or  Begynen,  were  provided  for,  in  the 
same  way  as  in  the  Hospitals  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  &c.  It  is  not  unreasonable  to  suppose 
that  a  young  artist  possessed  of  talent  and  ambition  should  feel  an  objection  to  the  name  of 
"old  woman"  when  he  had  nothing  to  begin  the  world  with. 

About  the  year  1630,  Adrian  van  Ostade  received  Bega  as  a  scholar  into  his  atelier, 
where  Isaak  Ostade,  Cornelius  Duhart,  Michel  de  Muscher,  and  Anton  Gorbauw,  were  all 
pursuing  their  studies.  Bega  was  of  a  tender,  pliant,  docile  disposition,  and  he  soon  acquired 
his  master's  manner  of  painting.  He  stands  nearer  to  Ostade  then  any  of  his  other 
pupils. 


TIIK    PEASANT'S    DWELLING,    AFTKK    CORNELIUS    BEOA.  Igl 

Atli'iau  Mill  (X<ta(k'  was  poor  in  iiivontioii,  lie  was  dry  and  passionless.  In  those  re- 
spects the  pupil  excelled  the  master.  Bega  felt  the  necessity  of  conveying  to  iiis  canvas  the 
feelings  which  he  hiniscH'  possessed,  and  these  were  of  a  tender  nature.  h\kv  him,  his  figures 
began  to  siiew  something  of  laughing  or  weeping,  or  they  displayed  the  melting  mood  of 
happy  lovers,  which  last  drew  general  attention  to  the  young  painter.  Bega  seemed  in- 
stinctively to  have  discovered  the  point  wherein  refined  sensibility  might  be  united  with  the 
imaging  of  vulgar  life.  The  grotescpie  began  to  speak  the  language  of  the  heart.  A  world 
of  hobgoblins  interpreted  in  a  very  ardent  manner  the  poetry  of  love. 

That  the  impressions  made  at  the  time  by  these  extraordinary  performances  were  alike 
gratifying  to  the  jiainter  and  to  his  patrons  there  can  be  no  doubt.  Their  ideas  of  the  aes- 
thetic differed  from  those  of  our  time,  and  wiiat  were  considered  as  works  of  art  then,  are 
now  preserved  by  us  as  mere  curiosities. 

No  particulars  relative  to  the  career  of  tliis  painter  iiave  been  handed  down  to  us: 
one  very  singular  circumstance,  however,  is  worthy  oi'  relation,  the  more  so  as  we  have  it 
from  the  best  authority.  Bega's  prevailing  passion  was  hne  to  the  fair  sex.  His  life  was  a 
constant  succession  of  lo\'c  stories,  or  rather  love  making,  none  of  which  are  of  sufficient 
interest  to  be  recorded  except  the  last. 

In  the  year  1664  the  plague  broke  out  in  the  Netherlands.  Men  died  by  thousands. 
Societies  were  formed  amongst  friends  for  the  purposes  of  liurying  their  dead  and  removing 
the  infected  to  the  houses  appropriated  for  their  reception,  where  they,  for  the  most  part,  un- 
attended by  nurses  or  even  medical  men,  lingered  miserably  till  death  terminated  their 
sufferings. 

The  young  woman  to  whom  Bega  was  engaged  to  be  married  was  attacked  by  this 
virulent  disease,  and  in  spite  of  all  Bega's  endeavours  to  pi-event  it,  she  was  carried  off  to 
the  Pest-house.  In  vain  did  the  painter  try  to  force  his  way  to  her;  he  was  repulsed  by  the 
watch  on  duty.  By  briliing  the  persons  who  acted  as  attendants,  he  at  length  succeeded  in 
discovering  in  which  part  of  the  building  she  lay.  He  opened  the  window  from  without,  and 
saw  his  beloved  in  the  agonies  of  death.  Finding  it  impossible  to  gain  an  entrance,  or  to 
■  take  a  farewell  embrace  of  her,  he  took  his  stick  which  he  used  for  painting  and  touched  the 
lips  of  the  dying  one.  This  stick  he  afterwards  applied  to  his  own  lips,  and  kissed  it  de- 
voutly. After  having  exchanged  three  kisses  with  her  in  this  manner,  her  spirit  departed. 
In  despair,  he  left  her  he  loved  only  to  become  an  inmate  of  the  same  house.  By  this 
parting  kiss  he  had  become  infected  by  the  plague,  which  quickly  ended  his  life. 

Bega's  ''Peasant's  Dwelling,"  with  the  mother  suckling  her  ciiild  in  the  fore-ground,  is 
one  of  his  best  pictures.  This  piece,  an  engraving  from  which  accompanies  our  work,  is  one 
of  the  most  consistently  arranged;  the  grouping  is  more  congenial,  and  ugliness  more  modi- 
fied than  in  any  other  that  we  are  acquainted  with  by  the  hand  of  this  master.  The  woman 
in  the  background,  who  seems  to  be  relating  something  which  deeply  interests  the  indivi- 
dual listening  to  her,  may  certain!}'  be  accepted  as  one  of  Bega's  beauties. 


Ig2  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

THE   STAG    HUNT, 


KABL  RUTHART. 


Karl  Euthard,  like  Franz  Snyders,  loved  to  jiortray  woodland  scenery  and  the  wild 
animals  wliicli  abound  in  the  forests.  He  leads  us  into  the  coolest  nooks  of  the  wood,  into 
the  darkest  and  deepest  recesses  of  the  forest,  through  humid  ravines,  over  firm  rocks,  where 
we  may  view  the  game  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  their  natural  element.  Here  the  shy  roe- 
Inick,  with  fear  in  his  eye,  seems  to  be  aware  of  our  intrusive  appearance  in  his  haunts,  he 
(juickly  turns  from  us,  and  canters  oft^  to  meet  unexcepted  danger  in  the  distance;  there  the 
fallow-deer,  with  his  noble  antlers,  and  his  mate,  turn  from  tlie  flowing  water  between  the 
rocks,  disturbed  by  the  sudden  accent  and  flapping  of  the  wings  of  two  splendid  herons. 

But  danger  is  at  hand.  Poor  stag,  the  enemy  is  on  thy  track;  run  for  thy  life! 
Those  sparkling  orbs  which  penetrate  the  bush  are  fixed  upon  thee:  the  lynx,  with  his 
elastic  frame,  and  powerful  sinews,  lies  lurking  there  preparing  for  his  spring.  With  the 
swiftness  of  an  arrow,  the  young  roe-buck  liounds  into  the  adjacent  thicket,  seeking  an 
asylum  there;  but  no,  there  is  no  escape  for  liim;  he  is  doomed — the  ferocious  fiend  is  at 
his  heels.  The  next  moment  the  assassin  sinks  his  sharp  claws  in  the  throat,  and  with  his 
teeth  tears  the  flesh  of  liis  prey. 

In  a  sequestered  part  of  the  forest,  concealed  by  a  cluster  of  rocky  hillocks  from  tlie 
view  of  the  sportsman,  who  since  day-break  has  awaited  the  approach  of  game,  a  full  grown 
stag  has  been  feeding.  Near  him  frisks  to  and  fro  a  two  year-old  hind,  now  playing,  now 
nibbling  ofl^  the  younger  leaves  which  temptingly  iiang  from  the  branches  above  her. 
The  stifled  tones,  the  whimper  of  the  hounds  are  audible;  at  once  from  the  thick  underwood 
they  give  tongue;  one  of  them  stands  face  to  face  with  the  noble  stag,  and  as  he  turns  to  run 
a  second  dog  makes  his  appearance  and  ferociously  springs  at  the  throat  of  the  animal. 
He  defends  himself    He  lowers  his  antlers  and  keeps  the  dogs  at  bay. 

One  of  the  hounds  watches  an  opportunity,  makes  a  spring  forward,  and  liangs  fast 
on  the  ear  of  the  noble  animal.  The  stag  is  nearly  overpowered.  He  uses  one  of  his 
sinewy  fore-legs  to  strike  down  his  enemy,  he  plunges  violently  and  shakes  himself, 
bellowing  hoarsely,  but  the  dog  keeps  his  hold.    Tlie  head  of  the  stag  sinks  to  the  ground — 

he  is  exhausted.    A  third  dog  runs  in,  and  the  allied  forces  are  about  to  worry  him 

The  sound  of  horses  hoofs.  A  horseman  approaciies.  Is  it  the  game-keeper  or  the  owner 
of  the  forest?  No  doubt  the  dogs  have  broke  loose  and  pursue  the  game  unknown  to  the 
huntsman.  The  latter  raises  his  hand  and  cries  out ;  the  hounds  are  obedient  to  the  call, 
and  the  stag  is,  for  this  time,  saved. 

In  another  picture  we  find  the  death  of  the  stag.  It  is  still  very  early  in  the  morning. 
Two  hours  have  scarcely  passed  since  the  noble  stag  rose  from  his  lair,  stretching  his  stiflf 


i  Enjhsche' 


Tin:    STACi     HUNT,    AFTER    KAIU.    KUTUAUT.  183 

limbs  ami  shaking'  himself,  then  with  his  hind  Ici;  closing  his  haihour.  lie  wends  his  way 
thnuigh  the  dark  forest  ol'  tail  pines,  throngh  the  woodlands  and  oak  plantations  to  the  field. 
He  is  arrived  at  the  skirt  oi'  the  wood,  looks  proudly  about  him  -now  a]iproaih  the  pack 
and  the  troop  oi'  sjiortsnien,  and  amidst  their  noisy  huzzas  the  stag  Hies  from  them.  Aecuss 
to  the  forest  is  cut  off.     Tlu;  animal  gains  the  open  field:   the  hrooni  grove  is  open. 

^  The  chase  begins.  A  few  minutes  arc  passed;  but  the  hounds  are  close  at  the  heels 
of  the  animal.  The  stag  has  still  power  to  defend  himself,  but  he  must  have  breathing  time; 
a  few  moments  will  suffice  for  this,  and  he  will  be  enal)lcd  to  continue  his  flight.  His  eyes 
drop  blood;  with  foaming  mouth  he  turns  upon  Ins  pursuers,  attacking  them  with  his  antlers. 
High  in  the  air  and  witli  ripped  up  breast  he  tosses  his  nearest  enemy.  The  huntsman 
blows  the  well  known  sound.  The  last  moment  of  the  animal  is  at  hand.  ^\ttacked  on  all 
sides,  his  flesh  is  torn,  he  is  overpowered  ;  the  noble  animal  still  struggles — he  staggers,  he 
falls.  The  Inmtsman,  who  has  by  this  time  arrived,  cuts  his  way  through  the  noisy  pack, 
draws  his  hanger,  and  puts  an  end  to  the  sufferings  of  the  stag. 

Besides  the  pictiu-es  of  deer  and  stags  jiursued  by  tlie  hunters,  or  the  mountain  goat 
by  the  lynx,  Kuthart  painted  many  subjects  of  animals  bearing  a  warlike  character.  Perhaps 
his  most  celebrated  are  those  of  the  "White  Man,"  "The  Brown  Jacket,"  "The  Bear."  Ruthart 
in  all  his  representations  of  beasts  of  jirey  and  dogs,  however  fiercely  the  battle  may  rage 
between  them,  especially  avoids  exaggeration:  there  are  no  dreadfully  wounded  and  bleeding 
foxes,  or  wolves,  or  fantastically  shaped  heads  of  dogs,  as  in  the  pictures  of  Snyders,  but 
he  portrays  with  equal  force  the  expression  of  passion  peculiar  to  the  animals  which  he 
introduces. 

The  picture  of  "The  Horse  attacked  by  Lions  and  Tigers,"  although  somewhat 
fantastic  in  the  composition,  is  very  characteristic.  There  is  more  fidelity  to  natm-e  in 
"Leopards  disputing  the  Booty  with  Lions";  an  etching  of  two  wolves  attacking  a  stag  is 
perhaps  finer  than  either.  The  stag,  the  bear,  and,  next  to  them,  the  dog,  have  never  been 
more  successfully  portrayed  by  any  other  master. 

So  little  information  relative  to  Ruthart  can  be  obtained,  that  a  doubt  exists  as  to  what 
nation  he  belonged,  but,  till  it  shall  be  proved  to  the  contrary,  we  believe  him  to  have  been 
by  birth  a  German.  He  was  in  his  prime  as  a  painter  from  1660  — 1680.  It  is  generally 
supposed,  judging  from  the  forms  of  his  trees,  that  he  had  visited  Italy;  this  is  very 
probable,  as  the  trees  which  he  usually  introduced  are  those  indigenous  to  that  country. 
The  greater  number  of  his  works  are  to  be  found  in  the  collections  of  Germany. 


184  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


THE  SLEEPING  GllANDMOTHER, 


FEANZ  EYBL. 

The  modem  Austrian  school  of  painting  offers,  in  addition  to  the  large  architectural 
pictures  illustrating  tlic  history  of  the  Imperial  State,  those  taken  from  the  Holy  Scriptures, 
and  landscapes,  many  remarkable  genre  pieces  in  wliich  the  social  element  strongly  prevails. 
Amongst  the  painters  of  the  latter  class  Franz  Eybl  is  one  of  the  most  distinguished.  His 
drawing  is  good,  he  is  correct  in  his  representations,  and  his  style  of  colouring  is  pleasing. 
His  grouping,  perhaps,  may  bear  comment,  as  he  does  not  essentially  carry  out  "the  line  of 
beauty."  On  the  other  hand,  Eybl  is  very  hapj)y  in  denoting  the  characteristic;  his  figures 
are  full  of  meaning.  Scenes  representing  circumscrilied  domestic  life,  the  quiet  contentment 
which  seems  to  pervade  a  circle  of  good-humoured  folks,  are  very  cleverly  treated  by 
this  master. 


THE  HURDY-GURDY  PLAYER, 


AFTER 

J.  VAN  DER  VINNE. 


Jan  van  der  Vinne  is  one  of  the  few  Netherland  painters  who  possess  a  fancy  and 
facility  in  the  portrayal  of  character  which  will  bear  comparison  with  Wouwerman.  This 
master  painted  hunting  pieces,  horse  races,  processions  of  warriors,  and  likewise  landscapes 
with  innumerable  acessories.  He  painted  horses  remarkably  well.  His  pictures  are  some- 
times extraordinary  for  their  comic  humour,  and  his  portrayal  of  character  is  excellent. 

A  very  superior  picture  of  the  last  genre  may  be  seen  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery:  a 
ragged  looking  man  standing  before  a  house  is  playing  the  hurdj'-gurdy  and  singing  at  the 
same  time,  casting  a  longing  look  towards  the  house.  A  boy  with  a  fool's  cap  on  his  head 
is  adding  to  the  dis-concert  by  vigorously  striking  the  triangle.  Judging  from  the  like- 
ness between  the  two  figures,  they  represent  father  and  son.  This  is  a  small  picture  painted 
on  wood. 

Vinne  was  more  accustomed  to  drawing  than  to  painting.  He  drew  chiefly  in  bister, 
or  on  parchment  with  Indian  ink. 


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THE    BLIND    HUBDY-GUKOY    PLAYICR,    AFTKU    TIIK    SPANISH    SCHOOL.  JgS 

This  artist  was  born  in  Harlem,  in  tlic  year  1063,  iwui,  after  retiring  from  the  pro- 
fession to  wliicli  he  iiail  been  brouj^lit  tip,  and  passing  several  years  in  business,  he  died, 
a  wealthy  man,  in  1721. 


THE  BLIND  HURDY-GURDY  PLAYER, 


THE    SPANISH    SCHOOL. 


This  is  a  touching  picture,  full  of  nature  and  void  of  sentimentality — life  in  every 
feature.  We  need  not  hesitate  long  before  we  are  fully  persuaded  that  it  was  painted  in  the 
time  of  Murillo.  The  genre  has  entirely  freed  itself  from  the  Italian  style,  it  no  longer 
recognizes  the  formality  of  which  even  Valasquez  could  not  divest  it.  Nature  is  represented 
to  the  life,  even  in  the  higher  department  of  the  art  of  painting;  the  Sjianish  pictures  from 
sacred  history  bear  a  special  stamp  of  the  national  character. 

"The  blind  Hurdy-Gurdy  Player"  might  have  been  painted  by  Esteban  Murillo 
himself,  but  we  scarcely  ever  find  in  his  pieces  that  two  countenances  wear  so  great  a 
similarity  of  expression  as  here  depicted.  "We  should  be  rather  inclined  to  suppose  that 
Murillo,  in  order  to  heighten  the  appearance  of  suffering  as  portrayed  in  the  Aice  of  the 
blind  figure,  would  have  endowed  that  of  the  attendant  with   more  of  a  humorous  character. 

Murillo's  powers,  however,  were  not  limited  to  the  portrayal  of  scenes  of  every  day  life. 
Pedro  de  Moya,  when  in  good  humour  with  himself,  is  not  less  true  and  powerful  in  his 
delineations,  though  less  humorous,  than  JNIurillo.  Moya  has  a  pleasing  style,  with  an  air  of 
a  Van  Dyck,  for  he  gives  a  touch  of  the  ideal  when  he  intends  to  represent  simple  nature 
only.  Juan  de  Sevilla,  a  scholar  of  Moya,  possesses  still  more  of  the  Van  Dyck  style  than 
his  master. 

It  is  not  my  intention  to  enter  into  an  enquiry  as  to  the  correctness  of  the  con- 
jectured painter  of  "The  blind  Hurdy-fJurdy  Player."  The  picture  exhibits  evident  proof 
of  its  having  been  produced  by  a  master-hand.  The  plain  and  noble  keeping  reminds 
us  of  the  manner  of  Alonzo  Cano.  We  are  struck,  at  the  first  glance,  by  one  peculiar 
beauty  which  presents  itself  in  the  picture  of  "The  Hurdy-Gurdy  Player" — the  hand,  which 
displays  the  painter's  knowledge  of  anatomy,  a  department  of  art  with  which  Cano  was 
better  acquainted  than  any  of  his  contemporaries.  The  eye  is  irresistibly  attracted  by  the 
exquisitely  painted  and  beautifully  drawn  hand  of  the  poor  musician.  Michael  Angclo  was 
of  opinion  that  the  hand  was  the  test  of  a  painter's  anatomical  knowledge — a  truth  which 
since  the  time  of  Buonarotti  was  sufficient  to  di-ive  many  a  student  of  art  into  desjjair. 

Galleries  of  Vieana.  24 


186  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Alonzo  Cano  was  master  of  that  anatomy  inseparably  connected  with  the  painter's 
art.  On  a  closer  inspection  of  the  hurdy-gurdy,  "Co",  the  first  and  last  letters  of  the  artist's 
name,  are  perceptible.  Could  a  doubt  arise  as  to  whether  these  letters  were  meant  for 
Castillo,  Camillo,  or  Careno,  we  need  only  look  at  the  hexagon  on  the  other  side  of  the 
instrument  to  discover  the  masonic  signs. 

Alonzo  Cano  was,  in  fact,  not  only  a  painter,  but  also  an  architect  and  sculptor,  like 
the  Italian  heroes  of  art.  This  picture,  hitherto  without  the  painter's  name,  may,  till  a  proof 
to  the  contrary  be  alleged,  fairly  be  attributed  to  the  hand  of  Alonzo  Cano. 

After  having  founded  the  "School  of  Granada,"  which,  however,  produced  nothing 
under  his  management,  this  master  died  in  his  sixty-sixth  year. 


THE  BEER  DRINKER, 


JAN    VAN    STEEN. 


The  jolly  landlord  of  Delft  is  the  personification  of  Jan,  the  perpeiimm  mobile  of  good 
humour.  Like  a  man  of  a  happy  disposition,  who  strolls  about  in  the  fresh  air  singing  a 
merry  song,  humming,  or  what  not,  without  being  conscious  of  it,  the  pictures  of  van  Steen 
present  themselves  to  our  senses.  A  hearty,  good  humoured  laugh,  a  joke  merely  for  joke's 
sake,  are  things  of  which  there  is  no  superfluity  in  the  world.  But  in  art  this  laugh,  this 
joke,  is  certainly  a  rarity. 

The  painters  of  comic,  burlesque  subjects,  for  the  most  part,  strive  to  represent  more 
than  this  joke.  The  consequence  is,  they  arrive  at  that  point  where  the  joke  altogether 
ceases  to  be  one.  Wit  cannot  be  forced,  it  must  be  spontaneous,  free,  and  off-hand.  It 
is  awkward  and  ineffective  when  critically  prepared,  and  appears  stupid  and  heavy  ;vhen 
introduced  for  the  sake  of  shewing  off.  When  a  man  imagines  himself  unobserved,  lie  can 
give  loose  to  his  fancy,  and  it  is  astonishing  what  capers  he  can  cut. 

In  all  the  earlier  history  of  the  arts,  there  are  but  five  painters  of  first-rate  merit. 
That  is  very  few,  but  the  number  of  painters  who  can  laugh  is  still  smaller.  Of  this  kind 
three  only  may  he  brought  together,  one  of  whom,  besides,  laughs  like  a  horse.  His  two 
companions  are  Jan  van  Steen  and  Carle  Vernet.  While  Brouwer  displays  the  coarse 
merriment  of  a  Beotian,  Vernet  smiles  in  his  fashionable  pictures,  in  his  quaint  comedies, 

with  inward  delight,  but  quiet  and  refined. 

>f 

Jan  van  Steen  laughs  from  the  bottom  of  his  -heart,  but  loud,  he  is  never  vulgar. 
He  is  an  out  and  out  knowing  fellow,  well  acquainted  with  life  and  the  world.     He  is  even 


,../M^^^i^^z./«a4^ 


t/ft:^ 


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•'eriaj  d  £n§]is  cheu Itonstan Btalt  v  AH FayneleipiSJ n  Dresden 


TIIK    DKKU    DRIXKKR,    AFTKK    JAN    VAX    STEEN.  187 

more  sajjaoioiis  tlian  Hogarth,  but  docs  not,  like  tlic  Englishman,  ex|)ose  to  shame  the  faults 
and  failings  which  he  finds  out,  with  sardonic  satire;  he  understands  how  to  gloss  over  the 
venial  and  moral  weaknesses  of  mankind,  and  not  to  exhibit  the  loathsome  and  the 
deformed,  so  that  these  never  inti'ude  upon  us,  and  we  have  our  laugh  with  satisfaction. 
Steen  is  nothing  less  than  a  moraliser.  He  leaves  every  one  to  his  own  way,  so  that  he 
may  himself  also  kccj)  in  his  own,  that  is,  he  can  amuse  himself  by  entering  into  their  ways 
of  enjoyment.  Wherever  he  is  he  finds  instructively  on  all  sides  subject  for  amusement, 
simple,  harmless  pleasure. 

He  is  often  remarkably  tender,  he  searches  the  innermost  feelings  of  his  figures, 
imparting  to  them  really  affecting  touches;  for  instance,  in  his  picture  of  the  boy  who  makes 
his  dog  dance  before  a  few  spectators.  We  may  also  mention,  amongst  many  other  indivi- 
dual traits  in  his  pictures,  that  in  which  the  painter  has  represented  himself  sitting,  in  the 
garden  of  a  tavern,  as  a  poor  guest,  who,  instead  of  ordering  his  meal,  has  brought  it  with 
him.  The  repast  consists  of  a  herring  which  honest  Jan  laughing  holds  up  to  the  spectator, 
offering  to  divide  it  with  him,  when  each  crourmand  would  rise  from  his  meal  with  an 
appetite.  That  after  the  feast  they  are  obliged  to  leave  the  place,  where  milk  and  honey 
flow  in  streams,  without  being  able  to  satisfy  their  raging  thirst,  is  a  matter  of  course,  for 
Jan  has  no  money  for  himself,  to  say  nothing  as  to  paying  for  his  friend. 

What  flow  of  humoiu',  of  laughable  situation  does  this  piece  display!  And,  how 
is  it?  Ouglit  not  this,  wortliy  Spectator,  to  touch  thine  heart,  to  awaken  in  it  a  generous 
feeling  for  the  poor  painter  who  can  thus  innocently  satisfy  himself,  and  with  whom  thou 
hast  laughed  till  tears  ran  down  thy  cheeks? 

Steen,  however,  is  sometimes  guilty  of  gross  coarseness.  This  is  carried  to  such  an 
excess  that  one  would  suppose  the  painter  intended  by  his  drollery  to  offer  us  a  commentary 
as  to  have  far  the  maxim  "Naturalia  turpia^  is  founded  on  truth. 

The  finest  picture  of  Jan  van  Steen's  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery  represents  the  chief 
scene  at  a  boors  wedding.  The  happy  couple,  accompanied  by  the  charivari  of  the  invited 
guests,  are  conducted  to  their  sleeping  apartment,  while  a  stout  woman  with  her  child  at  the 
breast  remains  sitting  at  the  table  in  front  as  symbolically  intimating  the  sense  of  the 
comedy  in  course  of  performance.  Drollery  is  the  prominent  feature  of  the  piece.  Until  we 
have  sufficiently  amused  ourselves  with  the  subject  itself,  we  do  not  begin  to  admire  the  art 
with  which  the  light  is  managed  and  the  glorious  cJdaro  oscuro  of  this  picture. 

Another  picture  represents  a  room  in  which  the  greatest  variety  of  objects  are 
introduced  in  burlesque  disorder.  A  loving  pair  are  seated  in  the  middle  of  the  apartment 
and  making  arrangements  to  drink  a  glass  of  wine  cosily  together.  An  old  woman  jocosely 
threatens  the  lovers,  and  Master  Steen  stands  in  the  background,  playing  on  the  violin,  as  a 
sign  that  the  initium  fi.JeUtatis  has  commenced. 

Our  engraving  is  taken  from  the  picture  in  the  Czernin  Gallery,  which  represents  a 
somewhat  poorly  clad  figure  enjoying  his  meal.  He  has  just  taken  hold  of  tiie  beer  jug  and 
is  about  to  quench  his  thirst.  The  picture  is  imbued  with  an  air  of  calmness  and  seems  to 
express  nothing  further  than  the  wisdom  pointed  out  by  the  figure  of  the  owl  introduced  on 

24* 


188  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

the  wall,  There  is  nothing  better  in  the  world  that  which  the  teeth  take  from  it;  or  rather, 
more  according  to  Steen,  Eating  and  drinking  keep  body  and  soul  together!  In  the  genuine 
sharpness  of  look  in  whicli  the  features  of  tlie  "Beer  Drinker"  are  conceived,  we  easily 
recognize  the  power  and  delicacy  of  the  painter. 

Fully  to  appreciate  the  master  we  must  see  him  when  he  gives  loose  to  his  humour. 
In  this  respect  the  picture  of  Steen's  family  is  first  on  tlie  list.  Master  Jan,  together  with 
his  spouse,  probably  in  the  funniest  way  in  the  world,  has  fallen  into  a  respectable  state  of 
booze.  Both,  according  to  a  well-know  term,  are  "in  for  it",  and  seem  sleeping  for  a  wager 
over  the  table,  the  scene  of  their  heroic  deeds. 

All  the  rest  of  the  figures  present  are  busied,  each  after  his  own  inclination,  in  making 
the  best  use  of  the  occasion.  One  of  the  young  oflPsprings  of  the  worthy  pair  can  already 
shew  his  triumph  while  exhibiting  the  piece  of  money  which  he  has  been  fortunate  enough 
to  purloin  from  his  father.  His  little  sister  is  engaged  in  ransacking  the  pocket  of  her 
mother.  A  third  child  is  knockina;  down  a  wine  glass  which  stands  on  a  stool.  The  boorish 
servant  secures  his  booty  from  detection  by  secretly  handing  it  to  his  sweetheart.  The  dogs 
eat  up  the  pies  on  the  table;  the  cat  is  chasing  the  bird,  by  which  means  the  plates  and 
dishes  go  the  way  of  all  earthly  things;  the  monkey  is  rummaging  amongst  the  books  and 
papers,  and  even  the  fire  takes  its  part  in  the  scene  by  drying  up  the  goose  placed  on  the 
spit  before  it.  This  wonderful  picture,  about  three  and  a  half  feet  in  height  and  two  feet 
and  three  quarters  of  an  inch  in  width,  adorns  the  Bedford  collection  in  Bath. 

Another  picture,  containing  the  same  motive,  but  differently  treated,  is  in  the 
Hope  Gallery  in  London.  There  are  likewise  a  gi-eat  number  of  pictures  by  this  artist  in 
other  parts  of  tireat  Britain. 

One  of  the  richest  compositions  of  Steen's  is  the  "Marriage  Contract",  which  was 
celebrated  in  Salzdahlum  under  Frederick  Ulrich,  and  was  sung  in  not  over  choice  verse  by 
the  imperial  crowned  poet  Menantes.  This,  the  largest  picture  by  Jan  van  Steen,  which  was 
six  feet  in  breadth  and  four  in  height,  is  lost.  It  is  said  to  have  been  slipped  over  to  Paris 
in  the  year  1807.  Another  large  composition  represents  a  cock-fight.  This  picture  is 
in  England. 

Jan  van  Steen  was  born  in  Delft,  in  1630.  His  father  was  an  opulent  brewer  and 
spared  no  expense  in  giving  his  son  a  sound  education  as  an  artist.  Steen's  first  teacher 
was  Knupfer,  in  Utrecht;  the  other  Adrian  Brouwer,  whose  honorarium  was  liquidated  in  oceans 
of  beer.  The  virtuosoship  in  beer  drinking  which  Steen  in  the  course  of  time  displayed  is 
to  be  attributed  to  the  eflt'ect  of  Master  Adrian's  example.  Steen  possessed  the  same  extra- 
ordinary facility  of  composition  as  Brouwer.  The  former,  however,  found  too  much  pleasure 
in  his  pictures,  as  far  as  their  finish  was  concerned,  ever  to  treat  them  with  the  carelessness 
of  the  latter.  In  fact,  there  is  a  detail  in  many  of  Steen's  pieces  which  entitles  them  to  a 
place  beside  the  works  of  Mieris. 

Owing  to  the  length  of  time  which  Steen  was  obliged  to  devote  to  each  of  his  pictures, 
the  painter's  earnings  became  materially  reduced.  He  had  married  the  daughter  of  the 
painter  Goyen,  and  soon  found  it  too  difficult  to  support  his  family  by  means  of  his  pro- 


x^ 


G^Terhurq  p^' 


.^MA^.     ^Mj^Mu^. 


DruckuVerlagdEngliacheaKimBtanataUYAH.fayne.LeipaigftDresde- 


Drihk  uV,Tb;;d  I'.iiJljsAen  KtmslajisfalfTTA-ttKiyiiP.TjoipaiiJ'SIrpsrte 


THE    DESSERT,    AFTER    G.    TEUBURG.  189 

fessional  exertions.  His  father,  therefore,  built  him  a  brewery;  Stcon  l)eoanie  brewer  and 
tavern-keeper,  and  perhaps  the  joliiest  tliat  ever  lived  in  glorious  Old  Holland.  As  far  as 
drinking  was  concerned,  there  is  no  doubt  that  Steen  was  the  best  customer  at  his  bar. 
From  being  in  respectable  and  good  circumstances,  he  sank  by  degrees  into  the  direst 
poverty,  and,  at  last,  he  sought  by  rapidly  and  carelessly  painted  pictures  to  provide  for 
the  urgent  needs  of  the  moment.  Exhausted  in  body  and  mind,  van  Steen  died  in  the 
year  1689,  leaving  behind  him  a  distressed  family. 

Of  those  artists  who  have  engraved  after  Steen,  J.  Bogdelj,  J.  de  Mare,  Oortmann, 
J.  Wilson,  and  S.  Paul  take  the  lead. 


THE     DESSERT, 


G.    TERBUEG. 


A  fine  cabinet  picture,  full  of  repose  and  pecidiarly  interesting  sentiment.  In  this  piece 
Terburg  again  shews  with  what  caution,  we  had  almost  said  cunning,  he  goes  to  work 
regarding  the  choice  of  his  local  tones, — tones  which  are  of  greater  importance  to  him  than, 
for  example,  they  are  to  Dow — because  Terburg  is  incompetent,  by  means  of  the  paramount 
eifect  of  light  conveyed,  to  subdue  the  local  tones  so  as  to  invest  them  with  more  breadth  or 
congeniality.  This  picture  is  painted  in  the  most  beautiful  golden  tone,  which  the  dark  hood 
singularly  counterbalances. 


FERDINAND,  INFANT  OF  SPAIN, 


AFTKR 

P.    P.    RUBENS. 


^VTiile  van  Dyck's  j)ortraits  appear  in  dark  coloured  attire,  if  this  is  in  any  way  to 
be  justified,  and  from  this  circumstance  acquire  a  i-etined  simplicity,  a  softness  of  expression, 
which  fully  accord  with  van  Dyck's  touching  in  of  the  features,  Rubens  never  hesitates 
about   bringing  into   play   the   full   power  of  the   most  brilliant  colours,  e\en  in  his  single 


190  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

portrait  figures.  They  are  represented  in  the  grandest  gala  dresses,  which  too  frequently 
display  a  somewhat  over-variegated  appearance.  In  a  limited  situation  the  local  tones  are 
always  better  to  be  controlled  than  in  a  single  portrait  figure,  and  thus  it  is  that  the 
Infant  Ferdinand  exhibits  almost  a  superabundance  of  lirilliant  colour.  The  head,  however, 
is  a  master-piece — rectitude  and  firmness,  beaming  through  a  disposition  naturally  mild,  are 
visibly  displayed. 


THE  FOUNTAIN, 


KASPAR  DE  WITTE. 


This  painter  seems  to  unite  the  styles  of  several  masters.  He  was  born  in  Antwerp, 
where  he  received  the  first  rudiments  of  his  art.  At  an  early  age  he  went  to  Italy  and  made 
Claude  Lorrain  his  especial  model.  His  middle-grounds,  distances,  and  skies,  his  floating, 
soft  foliage,  thf)ugh  somewhat  monotonous  and  differing  from  nature,  are  borrowed  from 
Claude.  Witte,  like  his  prototype  and  Poussin,  was  fond  of  introducing  antique  ruins  into 
his  landscapes. 

Besides  Lorrain,  Witte  imitates  Philipp  Wouwerman  and  Bergheni,  both  of  his 
own  age.  His  pictures  are  delicate  gems  of  great  purit}-,  displaying  a  great  feeling  for 
beauty,  in  which  more  strength  might  sometimes  be  desired.    Witte  was  born  in  1620. 


TIZIAN'S    MISTRESS, 


TIZIAN  VECELLIO. 


The  grove  of  Mestre  is  renowned  in  song  as  the  "Eden  of  Love"  and  the  "Conse- 
crated ground  of  honour."  Here  was  the  meeting-place  for  those  murderous  duels  which,  in 
spite  of  the  threatened  severe  penalties,  were  fought  by  the  Venetian  nobility.  This  was  the 
fashionable  rendezvous  of  the  young  aristocratic  world  of  the  City  of  the  Lagoons,  the  garden 
of  the  Hesperides,  the  beauties  of  which  imhappy  lovers  too  often  had  bitterly  to  bemourn 


^ 


^ 


TIZIAN'S    MISTUESS,    AKTEK     TIZIAN    VECELLIO.  191 

behind  tlic  walls  oi'  the  cloister  and  in  the  narrow  [jrisons  of  the  palaces  of  justice.  The 
^' Bosclietto"  was  a  fluster  of  thick  Inishes,  amongst  which  groups  of  majestic  oaks  and  lofty 
pines  towered  high  above  the  underwood,  occupying  a  space  of  about  eight  hundred  paces 
in  breadth  and  twelve  hundred  in  length,  situated  north  of  the  town  of  Mestre  on  the  banks 
of  the  Lagoons — the  temi  fcrma.  A  succession  of  villas  stood  on  the  south  side  of  the  grove; 
on  the  inside  not  a  temple,  pavilion,  nor  resting  place,  nor,  indeed,  any  regular  paths,  were 
visible.  The  hidden  paths,  sometimes  to  be  found,  forming  a  kind  of  net-work  where  the  green 
sward  was  accidentally  free  from  tlie  luxurious  thickets,  were  not  wide  enough  to  admit  of 
two  persons  walking  al)reast.  It  was  scarcely  possible  to  proceed  twenty  paces  without  being 
obliged  to  resist  the  branches  and  twigs,  which  intruded  themselves  in  the  narrow  passage, 
and  impeded  the  progress  of  the  visitor.  This  green  labyrinth,  which  was  carefully  watched 
by  the  Signoria  of  Venice,  stood  upon  holy  ground.  It  was  here  that  the  weak  supporters 
of  the  Queen  of  the  Adriatic  fought  their  last  battle  against  their  victorious  enemy  and  were 
driven  back  from  terra  ferma  to  the  slimy  islands  of  the  Lagoons.  On  this  spot  stood  the 
modest  huts,  of  which  now  not  a  vestige  is  to  be  seen;  here  the  refugees  endeavoured  to 
make  their  last  stand  against  their  oppressors.  It  was  held  a  lucky  omen  by  the  proud,  rising 
Venice,  that  tiiis  spot  by  degrees  became  covered  with  greenwood,  especially  as  no  tree  would 
thrive  on  the  banks  of  the  Lagoon,  and  from  this  time  the  magistrates  of  the  republic  took 
the  flourishing  little  forest  under  their  protection. 

On  one  of  the  small  greenswards  of  this  Boschetto,  situated  on  a  creek  which  had 
made  inroads  into  the  place,  but  has  long  since  gone  to  decay,  stood  one  May  evening,  in 
the  year  1514,  two  men,  observing  with  evident  interest  the  glistening,  red  looking  water  of 
the  Lagoons.  Each  was  armed  with  a  rapier  and  a  stiletto,  and  wore  a  black  cloak.  One  of 
them  might  have  been  about  thirty  years;  he  bore  an  exjjression  of  earnestness  in  his  coun- 
tenance and  his  eye  was  unnaturally  restless.  The  other  was  somewhat  taller  and  possessed 
a  more  agreeable  carriage;  his  face  was  concealed  as  far  as  his  upper  lip  by  a  black  silk 
mask,  so  that  a  pair  of  sparkling  black  eyes,  the  finel}'  formed  mouth  and  chin,  adorned  with 
a  short  curly  beard,  only  were  visible.  The  first  wore  his  hair,  according  to  the  Venetian 
custom,  closely  cropped,  while  his  companion  wore  long  dark  brown  locks,  partly  hidden  by 
the  collar  of  his  cloak.  The  gondola  of  these  cavaliers  lay  at  about  fifty  paces  distant,  manned 
by  two  sturdy  iellows  who  in  their  mien  displayed  an  Airnestness  by  no  means  common 
to  the  usual  class  of  gondoliers,  and  seemed  to  be  awaiting  the  signal  for  their  departure. 

The  mask  turned  to  his  companion  and  with  a  pleasing  voice  and  remarkably  pure 
pronunciation,  which  at  once  shewed  that  he  was  not  a  Venetian,  observed: 

"Noble  Signor!  Will  you  allow  mc  to  hint  that  I  am  utterly  ignorant  of  the  ten- 
dency of  your  logic?'' 

"It  is  my  belief  that  you  do  not  comprehend  one  syllable  of  my  logic,"  coolly  replied 
the  person  to  whom  the  observation  «as  addressed. 

"Did  you  not  Just  now  tell  me,"  continued  the  mask,  "that  you  cannot  inform  me  how 
the  Council  of  Ten  will  judge  of  the  i)erpetration  of  the  indisputable  ci'ime  in  question?" 
"On  this  point,  Signor,  I  certainly  cannot  inform  you." 
The  mask  made  an  impatient  movement  of  the  hand  and  replied: 


192  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"In  this  explanation  lies  the  fullest  contradiction  to  that  which  j'ou  have  said  and 
done.  When  I,  in  my  gondola,  overtook  and  stepped  on  board  of  yours,  you  made  no  secret 
that  you  were  looking  out  for  the  same  people  that  I  was.  To  my  supposition  that  you 
wei-e  acting  under  the  commission  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  you  replied  that  such  was  really 
the  case;  you  permitted  me  to  accompany  you  and  sent  your  friend  with  my  gondola  back 
to  Venice.  You  have,  therefore,  not  only  acknowledged  yourself  a  servant  of  the  Signorla, 
betrayed  the  secret  of  your  commission,  and  perhaps  made  the  execution  of  it  impossible, 
but,  instead  of  your  friend,  you  took  a  stranger,  of  whose  real  views  you  were  wholly  unac- 
quainted, to  accompany  you,  and  you  have  gone  even  further  than  that.  Pray,  tell  me,  how 
long  is  it  since  the  servants  of  the  Signorla  have  been  allowed  to  proclaim  themselves  in  that 

capacity  and  to  dispense  witii  their  masks?    You  have  jilaced  yourself  in  my  power 

After  having  gone  so  far,  you  are  so  illogical  as  to  refuse  me  an  explanation  which  would 
not  one  atom  increase  the  offence  you  have  committed  against  the  stringent  laws  of  the 
magistrates." 

"Things  and  circumstances,  Signer,  have  their  own  logic,  and  till  now  I  have  not 
deviated  from  them,"  returned  the  Venetian,  "and,  further,  I  have  in  no  way  committed 
myself;  you,  however,  are  in  error,  1  have  not  placed  myself  in  the  slightest  degree  in 
your  power." 

"You  have  not?  Shall  I  tiy  whether  the  myrmidons,  from  the  description  I  can  give 
them  of  your  features,  can  find  you  out?" 

"As  you  please,"  answered  the  officer.  "I  will  even  furnish  you  with  my  name — 
Ordelaffi  Tradenigo.  My  family  has  stood  in  the  Golden  Books  since  the  founding  of  the 
Republic." 

The  mask  seemed  astonished,  and  muttered  to  himself  several  times  the  name  of 
Tradenigo,  as  though  he  could  not  account  for  a  member  of  this  noble  family  condescending 
to  the  office  of  spy  to  the  Signoria.    ' 

"Your  noble  name  will  not  avail,  Signor  Ordelaffi,"  at  length  rejoined  the  mask, 
"when  once  I  prove  that  you  have  shamefully  forgotten  your  duties." 

"How  would  you  prove  that?"  asked  the  Venetian  coolly,  "were  I  to  throw  you  down 
and  sink  you  in  this  deep  mud?" 

The  mask  started  back,  then  drawing  his  rapier  he  cried: 

"Scoundrel,  thou  art  greatly  mistaken  dost  thou  imagine  that  the  Duke  Alfonso  di 
Ferrara  is  to  be  slaughtered  like  a  lamb!" 

The  Venetian  took  off  his  black  cap  and  fell  upon  his  right  knee. 

"As  your  Serenita  has  discovered  yourself,  I  need  no  longer  conceal  from  you  that  an 
hour  ago,  immediately  after  your  arrival  in  Venice,  I  was  accredited  by  the  Republic  as 
ambassador  to  your  Highness,  as  these  paj^ers  will  shew." 

The  duke  I'cceived  the  papers  of  the  Venetian  Senate  and  took  off  the  mask  which 
had  concealed  his  handsome  features.  His  momentary  agitation  soon  subsided,  and  laughing  he 
held  out  his  hand  to  induce  the  nobleman  to  rise,  who  with  immoveable  gravity  had  retained 
his  kneeling  position. 


TIZIAN  S  JMSTKKSS,   AKTKH   TIZIAN   Vli(  tM.I.  193 

■'This  is  tlic  first  timo,"  s;ii<l  tlie  Duke  ol'  I'V'rrarn, "  tliiit  an  ainliM-  >ailor  lia.<  |insciitC'l 
himself  to  me  in  so  droll  ati<l  siiii;iilar  a  iiianuer." 

"This  is  ])robably  the  first  time  that  your  Ilinlmcss  has  jilavdl  ilic  siiiiiular  pail 
of  a  knight-errant,  and  lieen  so  rash  as  to  deiy  tlic  hravos  of  Venice,"  relni'iied  the 
other. 

"1  entertain  a  hin'her  opinion  of  your  Do;;'c  and  Jiis  Senate,"'  remarked  the  Diikc, 
"than  to  fear  that  tliey  woidd  ever  think  of  assassinating  a  prince  who,  with  the  most  harin- 
less  intentions  in  the  world,  visits  the  chief  city  of  the  Rcpidjlic." 

"Who  si)eaks  of  the  Government?  It  is  an  offence  punishable  with  death  lor  any 
Venetian  to  insinuate  that  the  l>ravos  and  the  Senate  can  come  in  connection  in  any  other 
way  than  Ijy  the  medium  of  the  headsman.  1  made  not  the  slightest  allusion  to  the  Govern- 
ment when  I  observed,  that  it  was  imprudent  on  your  part,  unprotected,  to  steal  into  Venice 
without  informing  the  Doge  of  yoiu-  presence.  AVhen  I  have  spoken  of  a  bravo,  1  make  it  a 
rule  never  to  mention  the  word  (iovcrnment  oti  tiie  same  day,  lest  a  misconception  arise  and 
it  may  be  supposed  that  1  have  mixed  the  two  parties  together.  I  merely  meant  to  suggest 
the  possibility  of  one  or  other  bravo  mistaking  your  person.  Strangers  in  Venice  have  many 
enemies,  because  they  will  not  take  the  trouble  to  accommodate  tliemsclvcs  to  our  customs 
and  laws." 

"1  thank  you,  noble  Urdelaffi,"  answered  the  prince,  ''you  have  got  out  of  this  afl'air 
so  cleverly,  that  you  have  given  me  no  mean  opinion  of  your  abilities.  Well,  then,  you 
need  be  under  no  a])prehension — you  need  not  hesitate  in  answering  my  present  (piestion. 
how  long  do  you  purpose  giving  me  the  honour  of  your  company?"' 

■  "The  reverential  respect  which  the  Senate  cherishes  for  your  exalted  jiersou  demands 
that  the  ambassador  of  tiie  Republic  shall  accompany  you,  as  long  as  you  think  proper  to 
honour  the  territory  of  Venice  with  your  presence." 

"And  your  intention  is,  Signor  Tradenigo,  in  accordance  with  the  sapient  discretion 
of  your  dark  Go^'crnmcnt,  to  obligingly  hinder  me  by  being  before-hand  with  mc,  in  iIil; 
event  of  my  undertaking  anything  else  than  my  piu'posed  plan  of  \icwingyour  incomparablv 
free  territory!"  cried  the  Duke  impatiently. 

"Your  Highness  is  as  free  here  as  in  Ferrara,"'  rctiu-ned  (Jrdelalfi  respectfully.  The 
ambassadors  of  the  Kepublic  have  never  yet  presumed  to  act  as  mentors  to  princes,  and,  as 
far  as  concerns  myself,  I  am  too  proud  to  be  envious  of  that  doubtfid  rejiulation.  I  am  a 
cavalier  at  your  ser\ice,  and,  with  the  greatest  pleasure,  engage  myself  to  you  at  tiic  risk  of 
my  life,  even  if  yoiu-  purpose  can  not  be  effected  without  the  use  of  the  sword.'" 

The  Duke  rcHeetcd  fur  a  few  moments,  and  a  degree  of  gloom  overspread  his  coun- 
tenance when  he  replied: 

"As  you  have  recognized  mc  in  spite  of  my  mask,  you  can  also  not  be  ignorant  of 
the  circumstance  which  brought  me  here.  As  a  cavalier,  be  open  with  mc:  has  Laiu-a 
Cenci  entered  Venice?" 

"  No,  my  Lord." 

"Do  you  think  that  Tizian,  the  painter,  will  get  the  permission  of  the  Senate  to  marry 
Signora  Cenci?  " 

Ciallerics  ot  Vienna.  25 


194  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"Tizirtii  is  of  noble  Lirtli,  :iik1  lii.s  ai-t  places  liiiii  in  a  position  that  the  oldest  nobles 
do  not  enjoy — why  should  a  man  of  Tizian's  talent  be  deemed  unworthy  of  the  hand  of 
Signora  Laura  Cenci?" 

"15ut  Tizian  inveigled  Signora  Laura  from  her  fathers  house,  he  has  insulted  the 
lady's  family,  he  has  touched  the  honour  of  your  ambassador  at  my  court,  he  stole  away 
with  the  betrothed  of  one  of  your  most  respected  citizens Shall  all  this  pass  un- 
punished?" 

".\  marriage  has  made  good  worse  things  than  these,  my  Lord,"  said  Tradenigo  with 
a  sudden,  satirical  smile.  ".Vndrea  Uonato,  to  whom  Laura  Cenci  is  betrothed,  has  reason  to 
console  liimself  that  he  ^\as  not  the  only  i-ival  of  our  great  master." 

"You  mean  that  Tizian  has  gained  the  victory  over  mc  too  with  Laura  Cenci,"  said 
Alfonso  reddening.  "Let  me  tell  you  that  you,  spite  of  all  the  craft  of  youi'  infamous 
spies,  are  totally  in  error." 

Tradonigo  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"Few    people   would   believe,"   he   rejoined  politely,   "that   you    would   be  here  if  uo 

tender  feeling  were  in  your  breast   for  the  abducted  one 1  cannot  divest  myself  of  the 

idea  that  the    Duke  of  Ferrara,   is  only  come  to  Venice  to  take  summary  measures  against 
Tiziano  Veccllio  for  his  imprudence. ' 

Alfonso  remained  gloomly  silent. 

"1)0  candid  with  mc,  if  only  for  moment,  noljle  Tradenigo,"  at  length  resiuned  the 
Duke;  "do  you  believe  the  Doge  will  exert  his  power  if  I  repair  to  him,  express  to  him  my 
wishes,  and  represent  to  him  the  perfidy  of  Tizian?"  > 

"The  Doge,  no  doidit,  would  act  according  to  his  own  judgment." 

"What!  Has  your  princely  neighbour,  uo  consideration?  Has  my  word  no  more 
weight  tiian  a  painters?" 

"\\'hat   is  your  Lordship's  wish,  if  1  may  be  pardoned  the  question?" 

"AVhat  is  my  wish?  Put  Tizian  into  one  of  your  many  prisons  till  the  matter  is 
settled — shew  me  the  ])lace  where  Laura  Cenci  is  concealed,  that  I  may  speak  a  few  words 
to  her,  and  convince  her  of  her  blind  infatuation.'' 

Tradenigo  was  silent. 

"Tell  your  .Senate,  from  mc,  tliat  1  would  rather  lessen  the  boundaries  oi'  my  country 
than  see  flie  lady  in  the  power  of  Tizian,"  said  Alfonzo  \vith  jiassionate  warmth. 

"Let  us  wait  till  to-morrow  your  Highness,"  replied  Tradenigo,  his  features  suddenly 
Inightening.  "If  you  then  repeat  your  request,  I  cannot  be  answerable  that,  if  you  wish  it, 
the  Signoria  will  not  present  you  with  the  head  of  poor  Tizian." 

"It  does  not  depend  upon  to-morrow,  but  on  the  present  moment,  Signor!  As  a 
noble  knight,  answer  mc;  where  has  the  painter  concealed  the  girl?  I  pei-ceive  that  you  are 
acquainted  with  the  hiding  place  of  this  unthankful,  this  treacherous  painter."' 

"Your  Highness,  you  are  mistaken!    I   am   not   informed   of  the   secret    you    desire 


TIZIAN'S  MISTRESS,  AITKK  TIZIAN   \'I:CI;M-H).  195 

lo  know.  But,  look — do  you  spc  the  u;ou(lola  stccriiiff  its  course  towards  the  BoKchetto? 
My  1'ornier  oouip;uiion,  wlioni  I  sent  off  to  convey  the  iiitelliij'eiice  of  my  hiiviuij  found  you, 
will  be  here  in  a  few  uionients.  He  will  have  diseoveieil  Tizian's  retreat,  and  it  will  only 
depend  u|)on  whcllier  he  lie  ])ennitted  to  spcnk  of  il,  or  not." 

Alfonso  inuttered  curses  to  himself  on  ihe  unapproachaMe  might,  invisible  to  him,  but 
whieii  met  him  at  every  point,  and  recei\'ed  with  a  cold  demeanour  tlic  noble  and  hisnla^■kl■d, 
well  -armed  companion. 

"Will  your  Highness  permit  me  (o  inlroduce  ni}'  cousin,  the  noble  Andi-ca  Donato?' 
s;rul  the  ambassador. 

The  nol)le  removed  his  mask,  discovering  a  pale,  gloomy  visage. 

"And  this  is  a  gentleman — without  a  name,"  continued  Ordehiffi,  jiointing  to  the  second, 
who  did  not  unmask. 

The  Duke  scrutinized  the  latter  more  closely.  He  was  a  delicately  formed  man,  whose 
flexible  figiu'c  could  not  be  concealed  by  the  cloak  he  wore.  His  neck  was  beaulifully 
white,  indeed  effeminate  in  aiijiearauce,  and  the  locks  which  fell  from  beneath  his  ca[)  \icd  in 
glance  and  blackness  with  the  silk  of  his  cloak. 

"So,  this  is  one  of  your  terrible  nameless  ones!"  remarked  the  Duke,  somewhat  astonished. 
"I  find  it  strange  that  your  wise  gi-ey-beards  should  intrust  their  secrets  to  people  so  young 
as  this  ca\alier  appears  to  be:  and  as  the  young  gentleman  does  not  unmask-,  probably  he 
will  speak  as  nuich  as  youi-  bra/.cn  lions." 

"I  shall  speak  wlien  my  tunc  comes"  rctinaicd   the  Mask  in  a  somewhat  soft  \(iice. 

The  Duke  listened  with  roused  attention  to  this  rcph,  and  without  any  ceremony  seized 
the  hand  of  the  speaker. 

'•1  know  thee,"  he  exclaimed;  "at  least  this  is  not  the  first  time  1  have  heard  thy  voice. 
\\\\i\  art  thou?    Take  off  thy  mask." 

Ordelaffi  Tradenigo,  quickly  achancing  towards  the  Duke,  gentlv  drew  him  back. 

"You  forget,  your  Highness,  that  you  have  not  to  connnand  hexe." 

"Assure  me  that  this  young  man  is  a  Venetian,  and  that  you  know  him,  and — " 

"AVe  caimot  do  that,  my  Lord,"  answered  Andrea  Donato.  "Who  lias  at  any  time  as- 
certained the  persons  of  the  iiame/f's"?  One,  who  |)resumed  upon  his  dignity,  became  a  sacri- 
fice to  his  effrontery,  and  was  foiuul  stabbed  to  the  heart  at  the  corner  of  the  I'iazi'tfa — in 
short,  my  Lord,  we  know  as  little  of  those  who  are  given  us  for  our  escort  as  you  yourself." 

"May  I  ask  what  you  have  to  communicate  to  us,  or  rather  to  the  noble  Signer  Tra- 
denigo, wlio  has  been  so  kind  as  to  undertake  the  duties  of  an  ambassador  to  my  person?" 

Andrea  Donato  looked  at  Ordelaffi  enquiringly.  The  latter,  quick  as  thought,  \\iid<cd 
towards  tlie  unknown  servant  of  the  "Council  of  Ten,"  and  Donato  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"]\Iy  connnission  is  no  secret,"  said  he.  "I  am  ordered  to  be  attentive  and  obedient  to 
your  Highness;  and  ha\e  the  right  only  to  call  your  attention  when  you,  through  ignorance 
of  our  laws  and  customs,  may  possibly  be  in  danger  of  infringing  them." 

25* 


196  THE  GALLERIES  OF   \-IENNA. 

"And  if  I  were  disposed  to  net  only  on  my  own  responsibility,  without  troubling  my- 
self about  yoin-  customs,  and  the  danger  attending  their  infringement,  but  to  break  through  all 
which  ofter  an  impediment  to  my  will!  What  then?"  said  Alfonso  impetuously.  "You  would, 
with  j-our  eternally  smiling  face,  without  any  further  ceremony,  declare  me  your  prisoner!" 

The  Unknown  betrayed  great  uneasiness. 

"Heaven  forbid,"  muttered  Andrea  Donato,  "that  you  should  bring  misfortune  upon 
yoiu'self  through  a  mere  whim." 

"A  whim?  Did  you  not  tell  me  so  cavalier?  If  you  were  dying  with  love — in  love  so 
deep  that  you  were  no  longer  master  over  your  own  actions  .  .  .  What  then!  If  a  treacher- 
ous friend  deluded  your  mistress,  escaped  with  her,  and,  perhaps  at  this  very  moment,  were 
to  marry  her  .  .  .  Deuwnio!" 

The  Duke  uttered  these  words  with  all  the  volubility  peculiar  to  his  excitable  tempera- 
ment, and  stamjied  his  foot  angrily  upon  the  ground  at  their  conclusion. 

"Tell  me,  where  Is  the  painter?"  continued  he  furiously.  "By  heaven,  if  he  stood  before 
me  I  would  pierce  him  through,  though  the  winged  lions  from  St.  Mark's  pillar  should 
fl}'  over  the  harbour  and  cover  him  with  their  wings." 

Andrea  Donato  turned  and  bowed  low  to  the  mask. 

"Will  you  allow  the  noble  Duke  to  be  informed  where  Tlzian  deCadoreis  to  be  found?" 
asked  Donato. 

The  Mask,  bj'  a  movement  of  his  head,  silently  consented. 

"I  beg  you,  gentlemen,  to  hold  your  swords  In  readiness,"  said  Donato,  whose  naturally 
pale  face  had  become  somewhat  crimsoned.  "We  will  not,  Indeed,  be  the  assailants  in  this 
affair,  but  the  high  Signoiia — I  may  venture  to  presume  -  will  l)e  of  opinion  that  we  need  not 
submit  to  be  spitted  without  defending  ourselves.      Noble  gentlemen,  forget  not  your  masks." 

Donato  put  on  his  mask  and  assisted  the  Duke  to  do  the  same,  as  the  latter  was 
unaccustomed  to  such  matters. 

"We  Venetians  know  better  how  to  go  about  things  with  our  masks  than  without 
them,"'  said  Ordelaffi,  laughing. 

"They  even  say,"  rejoined  Alfonso,  "tliat  you  are  so  accustomed  to  use  your  own  faces 
as  masks  that  you  cannot  distinguish  one  from  the  other." 

"One  thing  more,"  said  Donato — turning  to  the  Unknown— "you  have  not  yet  been  kind 
enough  to  give  me  the  sign  that  you  consent  to  this  forthcoming  adventure." 

"Here  Signor!"  whispered  the  Unknown. 

He  produced,  from  under  his  cloak  a  lady's  white  glove,  beautifully  embroidered  in  gold, 
and  handed  it  to  the  cavalier,  who  looked  at  it  with  astonishment. 

"^^'ilat  do  I  want  with  the  glove?"  cried  Andrea.  "I  must  have  my  piece  of  money,  as 
j-ou  very  well  know "' 

"The  money  you  will  find  In  the  glove,"  interrupted  the  Unknown  in  a  low  voice. 


TIZIANS    MISTRESS,    AFTER    TIZIAN  VECELLK).  197 

Donato  shook  <lio  glove,  and  a  very  small  gold  coin  with  the  roriio,  ov  doge's  caji,  or- 
namented with  the  winged  lions,  fell  out.  This  served  as  the  credential  and  the  sign  of  re- 
cognition worn  hy  the  secret  servants  of  tlie  high  Conneil  of  Ten. 

As  soon  as  the  Dnke  saw  the  glove,  he  stood  nicitionicss,  and  seeme(l  nnalile  to  with- 
draw his  eye  from  it. 

"1  pray  yon,  1  bescceli  you  to  show  it  nicl"  lie  hroke  i'orth  witii  a  trenililing  voice. 
Donato  shewed  the  glove,  hut  did  not  give  it  up  to  the  Duke.  * 

"Arc  your  .Senators  magicians?"  asked  Alfonso.  "You,  Sir  Unknown,  how 
did  you  come  by  this  glove?  Ah!  1  forgot — I  ought  to  have  known  that  I  sjiould  receive  no 
answer  to  my  r|uestion.'" 

"Is  it  the  glove  of  the  nni-away  lady?"  enquired  the  Unknown,  who  throughout  the 
conversation  had  spoken  in  a  low  key. 

"The  glove  does  not  belong  to  Laura  Cenei,  but  to  another  lady  who  is  very  dear  to  me" . . . 

"May  I  attempt  to  divine,  my  Lord  Duke?"  asked  Ordelaffi.  "Only  if  Signora  Laura 
Custochio  had  worn  this  glove,  could  its  dainty  perfume  have  had  so  great  an  effect 
upon  you." 

"It  were  well,  if  in  Venice,  where  so  many  things  are  forbidden,  this  di\ining  were  like- 
wise not  permitted,"  said  Alfonso  in  an  ill-humoured  tone.  "You,  Sir  Ami)assador,  would 
then  be  spared  your  want  of  delicacy.  I  do  not  deny  that  the  glove  belongs  to  the  noble 
lady  Custochio;  but  what  does  that  concern  you,  if  you  do  not  know  whether  it  has  fallen 
into  the  clutches  of  the  Council?  I  maintain  that,  no  one,  whoever  he  be,  ought  to  possess  a 
pledge  from  the  hand  of  a  lady,  who  does  not  possess  her  heart  too." 

"Perhaps  the  Council  possess  the  heart  of  your  lady,"  said  Ordelaffi,  laughing. 

"Y'our  wit  is  ill-timed,"  muttered  the  Duke.    "Andrea  Donato,  I  demand  that  glove  of 
you,  or,  according  to  the  laws  of  chivahy,  I  challenge  you  to  mortal  combat  on  the  spot  .  .  ." 
With  eyes  flashing  fire,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  the  hilt  of  his  sword. 
The  Unknown  advanced  towards  Donato  and  whispered  a  few  words  in  his  ear. 

"Here,"  said  Andrea,  handing  the  glove  to  the  Duke,  receive  your  treasure,  and  suffer 
me  to  observe  that  my  opinion  is  Signora  Laura  Cenci  was  right  in  eloping  with  our  Tizian, 
rather  than  love  a  duke,  who  is  ready  to  sacrifice  his  life  for  the  glove  of  her  beautiful  rival." 

"(io  on,  Ordelaffi  Tradenigo,"  commanded  the  Duke. 

The  noble  raised  his  cap,  and,  bowing,  turned  off  info  one  of  the  intricate  paths  through 
the  underwood  of  the  Boschetto. — In  tiie  mean  time  it  had  grown  dark,  so  that  the  illuminated 
windows  of  the  villas  on  one  side  of  the  grove  presented  a  continued  line  of  light. 

Ordelaffi  pursued  his  course  directly  towai'ds  a  villa,  the  lower  part  of  whicii  was  dark, 
while  in  the  u]iper  part  the  lights  shed  their  rays  through  the  windows. 

"The  inhabitants  of  this  house  seem  to  expect  no  good,"  muttered  Alfonso,  as,  with 
his  companion,  he  cautiously  approached  it.  "I  just  now  heard  the  clanking  of  swords  and 
observed  several  dark  figures — they  seem  to  have  placed  guards  round  the  villa." 


198  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"I  scaiTcly  think  that,"  whispered  Donato.  "It  is  not  unusual  of  an  evening  to  serenade 
the  ladies  living  on  the  Boschetto.'' 

"|Is  this  Tizian's  villa?"  enquired  the  Duke,  after  a  pause. 

"Only  rich  familie.s,  your  Highness,  can  reside  here,  owing  to  the  enormous  value 
of  the  sacred  ground;  and  Tizian  Vecellio  spends  all  he  earns,"  replied  Donato.  "This  house 
is  the  property  of  the  rich  Pietro  Aretino,  the  friend  of  Tizian,  and  I  am  certain  tliat  we 
shall  find  him  and  liis  lady  here,  tliat  is,  if  lie  has  returned  to  Venice;  or,  have  you  any- 
thing to  advance  to  tlic  contrary,  my  silent  Signor?" 

The  Mask,  with  one  liand  on  his  forehead,  leant  against  a  tree,  and  with  difficulty 
drew  breath. 

"Are  you  ill?" 

"I  am  better  again,"  answered  the  servant  of  the  State,  faintly. 

"AVill  you  shew  us  a  means  of  entering  this  villa  witliout  being  received  liy  pistol- 
shots?"  said  Ordelaffi,  shaking  the  Mask. 

"Venture  not  lay  hands  on  me,"  he  whispered.  "I  command  you,  Signer  Trade- 
nigo,  and  Signor  Donato,  to  knoclc,  and  in  the  name  of  the  Signoria  of  the  Republic  to  demand 
of  tlie  inmates,  as  they  value  their  lives,  to  give  you  instant  admission." 

"Cospetto!  Do  you  take  me  for  a  fool?  What,  you  would  have  us,  Donato  and  me, 
do  that  to  niglit  which  would  cause  us  to  be  apprehended  and  afterwards  banished!  Such 
singular  commands  as  you  have  just  uttered  are  rather  too  dangerous  for  people  of  our 
cast,  we  must  therefore  humbly  leave  them  to  you,  the  immediate  servant  of  the  Senate." 

"Wliere  is  the  doorkeeper  of  this  house?"  asked  the  Duke  impatiently. 

"At  the  entrance  to  the  villa,  of  course,  but  that  is  on  the  garden  side,  and  you  see 
that,  as  we  did  not  come  in  a  gondola,  we  shall  be  obliged  to  get  over  the  wall  Iiefore  we 
can  reach  the  garden." 

"That  shall  be  done  directly,  liold  cavalier,"  said  the  Duke,  at  the  same  time  jumping 
up,  and  taking  hold  of  the  iron  spikes  with  which  tlu>  wall  was  guarded.  In  the  next  nnnute 
he  had  reached  the  top  of  the  wall. 

The  two  cavaliers  followed  the  Duke  with  scarcely  less  dexterity:  the  Mask,  however, 
endeavoured  in  vain  to  reach  the  iron  spikes. 

"If  it  be  still  your  intention  to  follow  us,  just  tell  jour  legs  tt>  have  the  goodness  to 
exhibit  about  double  the  activity  they  have  hitherto  possessed"  remarked  Donato  jestingly. 

"You  will  not  go  without  me!"  said  the  Mask. 

"Going  is  not  the  question,  but  jumping,  mi  Cnro!" 

"I  command  you  to  take  me  with  you,"  returned  the  mask  in  a  trembling  tone.  "I  am 
ill,  my  strength  tails  me — without  your  assistance  1  shall  not  be  able  to  mount  the  wall — 
the  consequences  will  fall  on  your  own  heads  if  you  arc  obstinate." 

"Heaven  forbid,  Signor,"  said  Donato.  "If  you  will  only  be  good  enough  to  explain 
yourself  distinctly,  I  shall  be,  at  least,  and  you  may  feel  perfectly  satisfied  of  it,  immutably  the 
most  obsequious  servant  to  the  power  which  j^ou  re]iresent.  Here,  take  the  end  of  my  girdle, 
hold  it  fast  and  fear  not  its  breaking,  for  it  is  made  of  good  Arabian  silk." 


TIZIANS    MISlIiKSS,    AI'TKU     TIZIAN     VKCEI.LK).  199 

With  Tr;iil('iii;j:o"s  li('l|>  the  servant  of  thu  Senate  .soon  icmcIumI  the  top  of  the  wall, 
founil  sonic  ililliculty  in  climbing  over  tlie  iron  spikes,  and  at  lengtii  deseeudcd  into  the 
garden. 

"This  is  sonutliiiig  new,'  oI)served  Ordclaffi.  "I  always  understood  that  a  rope-dancer 
was  not  nioie  active  than  a  confidant  of  the  Council,  hut  we  seem  to  be  escorted  by  a  cava- 
lier who  rc(|uircs  to  he  carried  and  led  about  like  a  woman!"' 

As  the  intruders  were  cautiously  pursuing  liicir  \\;iy  between  the  oleanders  and  thick 
yew  bushes  in  fjuest  of  tiie  entrance  to  tlie  ^■illa,  their  ears  were  sainted  by  low,  soft  music, 
and  the  glorious  tones  oi'  a  I'eniale  voice,  proceeding  iiom  the  ground-Hoor  of  the  house. 

"It  is  she!"'  exclaimed  the  Mask,  standing  stock-still. 

"Yes,  it  is  she — Laura  Cenci!"  re|>ealed  the  Duke:  "I  should  recognize  her  voice 
amongst   a  tliousand.     But  where  have  you  heard  tlie  lady  sing?" 

""  l<(!"  cried  a  liarsh  voice;  and  the  owner  of  it,  a  negro,  dressed  in  sujierb  Oriental 
costume,  acted  as  door-keeper,  and  presented  himself  before  the  strangers — "Who  are  you?" 

"Ask  not,  slave — we  come  in  the  name  of  the  Sir/iun'ia  of  the  Republic,"  said  Donato 
in  an  imperious  tone. 

The  terrified  Africjm  let  fall  his  large  staff  and  humbly  crossed  his  hands  over  his 
breast.  He  allowed  the  strangers  to  enter  without  the  least  endeavour,  by  sign  or  otherwise, 
to  warn  the  company  of  the  unexpected  arrival. 

Alfonso  de  Ferrara,  knl  by  the  tones  of  the  \utv  which  filled  uj)  the  pauses  of  the 
song,  soon,  with  his  companions,  reached  an  open  colonnade,  forming  the  entrance  to  a  small 
saloon,  in  which  a  ntimlier  of  ladies  and  cavaliers  were  assembled  at  a  .symposium.  The  pre- 
sence of  the  strangers,  who  stood  in  the  badly  lighted  corridor,  was  scarcely  [lerceptible  to  the 
company. 

In  the  hall  stood  a  large  massive  table,  richly  hung  with  Belgian  tajiestry  of  the 
gayest  colours,  over  which,  on  the  upper  surface,  was  spread  a  snow  wdiite  Augsburg  damask 
cloth.  On  the  centre  of  the  table  stood  a  model  of  a  Venetian  man  of  war  ship,  with  flags 
and  streamers  Hying.  The  vessel  was  composed  of  various  metals,  and  from  its  keel  flowed 
alternately  white  and  red  wine.  Before  each  guest  was  placed  a  gold  ci)ergne,  the  borders 
of  which  were  decorated  with  flowers  and  fruits. 

The  (|ueen  of  the  feast  was  a  lady  of  aliout  twenty  years  of  age,  who  was  seated  on 
a  Turkish  sofa  at  the  middle  of  the  table.  Her  charming  rosy  complexion  was  lighted  up 
by  a  jiair  of  brilliant  lilack  eyes  and  surrounded  by  flowing  auburn  hair.  A  rose  coloured 
dress  with  large  puffed  and  slit  sleeves,  discovering  a  beautifully  formed  arm,  and  profusely 
ornamented  with  the  choicest  lace,  encompassed  the  charming  figure  of  the  queen  of  the  feast, 
whose  head  was  adorned  with  a  turban-like  wreath  of  white  and  red  roses  intermingled  with 
diamond  drops. 

At  her  side  a  young  girl  reposed  on  the  sofa  after  the  fashion  of  the  Oriental  ladies, 
her  feet  drawn  up  and  concealed  beneath  her  dress.   This  beauty  was  delicate,  lightly  formed 


200  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

had  remarkably  fine  hands  and  a  jiale  countenance;  her  features  of  a  noble  cast  betraying  a 
degree  of  self-will.  The  glances  of  her  soft  black  eyes  were  charming,  and  realized  the  de- 
scription which  poets  attempt  to  give  of  those  "brilliant  orbs.'  Tiiis  lovely  creature, on  whose 
finely  chiseled  lips  a  sunny  smile  but  seldom  played,  wore  heavy  earrings  and  bracelets  of 
costly  jewels.  She  was  enveloped  in  a  sort  of  silk  mantilhi,  which,  instead  of  sleeves,  had 
slits,  and,  with  its  broad  brown  and  white  strij)es,  added  more  to  her  foreign  appearance. 

To  complete  the  number  of  the  Graces,  there  sat  at  the  other  end  of  the  sofa  a 
luxurious,  smiling  beauty,  with  light  hair  and  liglit  blue  eyes.  This  lady,  who  was  dressed  in 
simple  white,  the  only  ornaments  she  wore  being  a  pearl  neck-laee  of  inestimable  value,  and 
a  wreath  of  lilies  in  her  hair — was  evidently  either  a  German  or  a  Netherlander. 

Amongst  all  the  company,  the  Duke  knew  only  tiie  rosy  queen  of  the  feast  and  two 
cavaliers. 

One  of  the  hitter  was  Tizian,  the  painter.  He  was  seated  on  a  large  cushioned  settee 
and  seemed  to  be  revelling  in  luxury  and  delights.  He  was  dressed  in  a  black  silk  doublet  and 
a  velvet  cape  of  the  same  colour,  wore  a  wreath  of  roses  over  his  brow  and  was  about  thirty- 
foiu-  years  of  age,  with  a  finely  formed  head,  and  Ijeardetl  iace  full  of  animation.  He  played 
occasionally  upon  a  small  reed  flute. 

His  neighbour  looked  serious,  almost  sorrowful,  under  the  thick  laurel  wreath  that 
decked  liis  royal  brow:  he  [ilayed  with  wonderful  dexterity  on  a  lute,  and  this  cavalier  was 
remarkable  for  his  black,  piercing,  restless  eyes.  He  was  the  bosom  friend  of  the  great  painter 
— Ariosto  the  poet,  whose  renown  had  spread  through  all  Italy. 

A  sinewy-built  elderly  man,  with  large,  strongly  marked  features,  was  [jointed  out  to 
the  observing  Duke  Alfonso  as  the  sculptor  Jacopo  Sansovino;  next  to  him  sat  the  tall  smil- 
ing host,  the  Chevalier  Pictro  Aretino,  whose  attention  seemed  to  especially  directed  to  the 
gentleman  occupying  the  seat  of  honour  at  the  taljle. 

This  was  a  younger  man  with  short  hair  and  beard,  a  serious,  rather  proud,  cast  of  coun- 
tenance and  a  finn,  steady,  piercing  eye.  He  wore  a  dark  cloth  dress  of  tlie  Spanish  cut, ,a 
<rold  chain  with  a  medallion  round  his  neck,  and  on  his  r\<A\t  hand  a  larijc  diamond  of  the 
finest  water.     He  was  the  only  one  in  the  society  whose  head  was  without  a  wreath. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  serious  gentleman  sat  a  strange  looking  figure,  with  a  shiny 
black  lamb-skin  cap  on  his  shaven  crown,  and  a  blue-black  beard  which  reached  to  his  chest. 

Richly  dressed  male  and  female  attendants,  tht^latter  mo\ing  about  in  fairy-like  dresses, 
presented  fruits  and  cooling  refreshments  to  the  assembled  guests. 

An  immense  chandelier,  like  those  so  extiuisitcly  manufactured  in  Antwerp,  s])read  its 
beautiful,  intricate  branches  over  the  taljle,  and,  around  the  saloon,  burnt  variegated  pa})cr 
lanterns,  throwing  a  peculiar  light  on  the  costly  pictures  w'hich  represented  the  triumpii  of 
Venus  and  Bacchus. 

Ariosto  rose,  and  touched  the  strings  of  his  lute  as  a  prelude  to  singing. 


TIZIANS    JUSTKESS,    AFTEK     TIZIAX     VECELLIO.  201 

"Signor,"  said  the  gentleman  sitting  at  tlie  end  of  tlic  tal)Ic,  "alliiw  ine  to  reniinil  you 
that,  notwithstanding  you  arc  so  great  a  poet,  you  liave  not  iniprovized  to-night." 

Ariosto  l)o\ved  as  low  as  the  lute  and  the  table  permitted,  and  asked: 

"'On  wliat  theme  does  my  honoured  Lord  comniand  a  lay?" 

"5/t'.f.'''  replied  the  person  addressed,  with  sparkling  eyes,  bowing  to  the  la<ly  with 
the  rose  wreatli;  "AngeHcu,  sorel/a  dell  Arfjalia,  l>elit<><una  a  maraviglia,  si  fa  jwrtare  per  arte 
magica  in  Lerante!" 

Loud  applause  followed. 

"First  of  all  let  us  introduce  the  verse  in  good  Brabantine,"  said  the  president,  at  the 
same  time  raising  tlie  cup  into  which  tiie  ladies  had  thrown  rose  leaves.  "Here  "s  to  the  ladies, 
the  poets,  and  painters,  all  noble  cavaliers;  and,  when  citizens  and  ])easants  shall  have  been 
toasted,  then  shall  the  worthy  princes  and  lieges  be  drunk  according  to  their  honour  and 
their  worth.     And  so  we  shall  have  forgotten  no  onel" 

•'You  have  forgotten  to  include  the  betrayed;  to  whose  health  Alfonso  d'Este  will 
drink,"  said  the  Duke  in  a  loud  voice,  and  coming  forward,  grasi)ed  his  sword  with  one  hand, 
while  with  tlic  other  he  tore  off  his  mask. 

The  Mask  hastened  to  the  spot,  and  placed  himself  between  the  astonished  guests  and 
the  Duke,  and 'by  his  sii|)plicating  gestures  seemed  to  restrain  him  from  his  rash  and  sanguin- 
ary intention.  Ordelafti  Tradcnigo  and  Andrea  Donato  gravely  and  stifHy  entered  the  sa- 
loon, still  wearing  tiieir  masks — a  singular  contrast  to  the  brilliant  company. 

Tizian,  as  soon  as  he  recognized  the  Duke,  quickly  rose,  and  with  sword  in  hand  rushed 
to  the  place  where  the  lialf  swooning  queen  of  roses  sat,  behind  whom,  with  fire  in  his  eye 
and  fierce  determination  in  his  countenance,  he  stood  in  an  attitude  of  defence. 

"Ha!"  cried  tlic  painter,  "now  1  know  the  nature  of  him,  who  till  now  with  ialsc  feathers 
strove  to  dress  himself  as  Ferrara's  noblest  son.  Retire,  Duke  jVlfonso!  if  you  are  you  not 
ashamed,  in  the  company  of  spies,  to  break  into  the  dwelling  of  a  cavalier,  you  must  not 
wonder  if  you  meet  with  the  same  treatment  as  those  fellows. 

"Vecellio,  be  cool,"  said  Tradenigo  in  a  warning  tone.  ''You  may  rc})cnt  the  injuries 
you  have  inflicted  on  the  worthy  nobles!" 

"Ordelaffi"  cried  Pietro  Aretino,  offering  his  hand  to  the  noble  servant  of  the  Signoria, 
"  I  hope  it  is  not  your  intention  to  play  the  character  of  the  monster  of  the  magician  whom 
you  accompany.  Depend  iqion  tliis,  we  shall  bravely  defend  the  fair  one  whom  you  have 
threatened!'" 

The  queen  of  the  roses  had  recovered  from  her  alarm,  and  with  firm  demeanour  ap- 
proached the  Duke  of  Ferrara. 

"I  need  not  swords,"  said  she  with  a  dignified  air.  "There  dwells  in  the  breast  of 
Alfonso  d'Este  a  generosity  whicii  will  protect  me  against  the  demon  of  passion,  to  which  for 
a  short  time  he  has  subjected  himself.  My  Lord,  coidd  you  from  any  word,  any  look  of 
Laura  Cenei,  have  reason  to  believe  that  she  favoured  your  love,  that  she  gave  you  the 
slightest  hope  of  her  ever  being  yours?" 

G.^lleriea  of  Vieuna.  26 


202  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

AH'ouso  extended  his  arms.  "O,  Bellissima,"  he  exclaimed,  falHng  upon  his  knee,  "it 
is  that  which  drives  nic  to  desperation — a  consoling  word,  a  compassionate  look  would  have 
given  me  fortitude,  and  rather  would  I  sacrifice  all  worldly  liR})piness  than  lose  you." 

"Rise  Prince!'  said  Laura  C'cnci,  "do  not  outrage  truth  hy  giving  utterance  to  such 
expressions.  Present  ofterings  to  no  other  idol,  but  return  to  the  idol  of  your  heart.  Can 
you  not,  by  your  pain  in  the  loss  of  a  lady  whose  feelings  never  reci]5rocated  yours,  mea- 
sure the  grief  that  rages  deeply  in  the  bosom  of  her  who,  in  the  eyes  of  (iod  and  man,  claims 
the  most  holy  right  to  your  love?  Wiio  is  Laura  Conti,  that  Laura  Custochio  your  affianced 
J)ridc  should  give  j)lace  to  her?  Kiss  her  glove  that  you  wear  in  your  hat;  give  me  your 
hand,  not  as  a  persecutor  but  as  a  friend—  if  not,  Prince,  know  that  you  will  soon  be  taught 
that  you  cannot  hunt  a  free-born  daughter  of  Venice  as  if  she  were  a  deer  of  the  forest!" 

"  iSjieak  only  of  yourself,  divine  Laura,  and  let  the  dead  bury  themselves.  Thine  eye 
kindles  another,  a  purer  ray  of  happiness  for  me  than  does  that  of  Laura  Custochio  .  .  ." 

"Ha,  liar!"  exclaimed  the  unknown,  tearing  oft'  the  mask,  and  discovering  the  charming 
Init  pallid  face  of  a  young  woman.  "Here  I  stand  in  attire  that  shames  the  modesty  of  my 
sex;  I  have  staked  my  reputation  by  following  you;  not  to  force  you  to  return  to  me,  but 
to  prevent  your  committing  the  crime  you  were  bent  upon." 

The  Duke  drew  back  a  few  paces,  in  amazement. 

"You  here;"  he  faltered  out,  his  eyes  flashing  fire,  while  with  his  right  hand  he 
unconsciously  sought  the  hilt  of  his  dagger. 

The  serious  looking  man  in  the  lamb's  wool  cap  being  close  by  the  prince,  rose,  and  at 
once  seized  him  by  the  wrist. 

"AVho  are  you?"  stammered  out  Alfonso,  taken  aback  at  the  want  of  ceremony  which 
the  stranger  exercised  towards  him. 

"I  am  a  man  who  will  spare  you  the  shame  of  drawing  your  dagger  against  a  woman," 
replied  he.  "And,  if  you  would  know  who  touches  your  li;ind,  lie  is  a  [iiliice  like  yourself.  I 
am  ^Vclimed  (Jcraj,  the  lord  of  Chersoii,  a  son  of  the  race  of  IJatu-Klian's." 

Alfonso  survej'cd  him  with  a  proud,  savage  look. 

"An  imbeliever,  a  Tartar  is  the  worthy  confederate  in  Christian  treachery!"  replied 
the  Duke. 

"Do  not  prevent  him  from  venting  his  blind  rage  upon  me,  generous  stranger,"  cried 
Laura  Custochio.  "Alfonso  de  Fcrrara,  who  dares  to  speak  of  traitors  may  finish  the  work 
of  treachery  with  the  edge  of  his  sword  upon  me.  Death,  which  he  still  has  the  power  of  in- 
flicting upon  me,  has  no  terrors  for  me  now  tliat  he  has  broken  my  heart.  You  have  not 
only  strayed  from  me,  neglected  me,  but  you  have  left  me  for  ever  ...  I  will  die,  but  before 
I  yield  up  my  last  sigh,  I  will  destroy  3'our  ]jlans,  perjured  one!  You,  cavaliers  of  the  Sig- 
noria,  I  command  you  to  take  that  lady,  Laura  Cenci,  prisoner." 

Ordelaffi  mysteriously  exchanged  a  few  words  with  Andrea  Donato.  The  latter  drew 
a  silver  whistle  from  his  belt,  and  blew  a  shrill  tone.   A  few  seconds  later  the  echoes  of  hurried 


TIZTAX'S  MISTKKSS,    AI'TKIi     TIZIAN     Via'KI,I,l(>.  203 

stops  over  the  inarMc  Hoor  of  tlie  corridor  wri-o  (lisliiictly  Iionrd,  iind,  witli   i,dit((M-inu;  doulile 
etl'ifed  swords  in  tlicir  liands,  trii  masked  (iijjiircs  in  l)l!iok  entered  tli('  saloon. 

"Wlio  oonininnds  liere?"  enquired  die  leadiir. 

"I,"  answered  Andrea  Donato,  with  an  agitated  voice.  "Conduct  that  lady  away"  .  .  . 
continued  he,  pointing  to  Laura  Cenci. 

"That  shall  not  he,  so  long  as  her  seducer  hrcathes!"  exclaimed  the  duke,  after  he  had 
recovereil  from  his  surprise. 

He  rushed  upon  Tizian  who  crossed  his  sword  with  hun. 

"Hey!  you  gentlemen,  hold!"  cried  the  gentlemen  who  occupied  the  place  of  honour  at 
the  table,  and  who  till  now  had  observed  the  most  firm  composure.  "  If  you  mean  to  light  here, 
the  parties  shall  at  least  be  upon  an  equality.  Stand  back,  Sir  Duke!  The  painter  wears 
a  doublet  which  is  not  so  safe  as  that  which  glitters  from  under  your  dress." 

The  serious  looking  gentleman  drew  an  unusually  long  rapier,  the  point  of  which  he 
directed  to  the  Duke's  breast. 

"Is  this  cavalier  also  to  be  taken?"  asked  the  leader  of  the  masks,  pointing,  with  his 
naked  weapon,  to  the  man  in  the  Spanish  costume  .  . 

"Seize  him!"  said  Donato,  "and  secure,  at  once,  the  person  of  Tizian  Vecellio.  Away 
with  the  three  prisoners!" 

"Let  me  advise  you  nerer  to  begin  anything,  that  you  cannot  finish,"  said  he  with 
the  long  sword,  drawing  himself  up  proudly.  "I  am  not  inclined  to  oppose  the  law  and 
order  of  the  Republic  of  Venice.  Hut  before  I  submit,  I  must  sec  clearly  that  no  mistake 
arise,  as  is  very  often  the  case  in  these  masquerades.  I  am  sufficiently  acquainted  with  these 
matters  to  know  that  the  persons  who,  for  a  time,  are  invested  by  the  Republic  with  un- 
limited power,  carry  their  orders  in  their  pockets.  If  any  one  of  you  have  such  an  order 
al)0ut  him  concerning  the  arrest  of  my  person  let  him  produce  it." 

"Your  name?"  demanded  Andrea  Donato  abruptly. 
"I  will  whisper  it  in  your  ear." 

"I  don't  discuss  secrets  with  any  one!"  replied  the  servant  of  the. Svyy^oj-m,  retiring  a 
few  paces  from  the  person  who  addressed  him. 

"As  you  will,  Signor!  My  name  has  more  than  once  l)een  publicly  mentioned.  1'lie 
Signoria  too  have  heard  it — I  am  the  Emperor  Charles  the  B^ifth." 

These  words  worked  like  a  thunder-clap. 

Tradenigo  and  Donato  invohmtarily  bent  low  and  took  off  their  caps  and  masks.  Al- 
fonso de  Ferrara  stood  as  if  paralysed. 

"Do your  duty  gentlemen,"  said  the  P^mperor,  .and a  smile  crossed  his  hard  features.  "But 
tell  your  Signoria  that  it  was  not  wisely  done,  to  disturb  an  innocent  traveller  in  the  execu- 
tion of  his  project,  to  have  himself  limned  by  the  best  painter,  not  only  of  the  Republic, 
but  of  all  Italy." 

2C  * 


204  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

Alfonso  uncovered  his  head  and  advanced  towards  the  Emperor. 

"Good  evening,  Cousin,"  said  Cliarles,  smiling.  "You  don't  seem  to  care  much  about 
keeping  your  contract." 

The  Emperor  pointed  to  Laura  Custociiio,  who  stood  there  suffering  the  most  powerful 
emotion. 

"Your  reproach  is  hut  partly  just,  your  Majesty!"  replied  the  Duke  somewhat  ashamed. 
"My  first  object  is  to  rescue  from  the  painter,  in  whom  I  reposed  implicit  confidence,  the  vic- 
tim of  his  seductive  arts." 

"I  believe  Tizian  declares  himself  precisely  in  your  situation!" 

"The  Sifftwria,  who,  without  my  having  a  voice  on  the  subject,  ordered  him  to  be 
arrested,  seem  to  be  better  infoi-med  than  your  Majesty." 

"My  arrest  I  confidently  declare  to  be  the  work  of  that  cavalier,"  said  Tizian  emphat- 
ically.   "Andrea  Donato,  like  you,  is  my  rival  for  the  love  of  Laura  Cenci." 

"1  assure  you,"  said  Andrea  coldly,  "that  such  a  thing  as  love  for  your  chosen  lady 
never  existed  in  my  breast." 

"Then  it  is  revenge,  Donato!" 

"I  leave  that  to  the  Signoria!^'  replied  Andrea.  "I  request  you,  Tizian,  to  mask,  and 
to  shew  obedience  to  the  servants  of  the  Council.    It  is  day-break." 

"Right,  and  the  owls  and  bats  go  to  bed,"  said  Tizian  scornfully.  "I  call  the  Em- 
peror to  witness  that  I  am  innocent,  and  shall,  against  all  law  and  justice,  be  thrown  into  the 
lion's  jaws." 

"Keep  up  your  spirits,  painter:  a  Habakuk  will  be  found  for  Daniel  in  the  den  of 
lions,"  jocularly  observed  the  Emperor. 

Tizian  put  on  his  mask  and  was  led  off.  Other  of  the  armed  officers  conducted  Laura 
Cenci,  who  had  wrapped  herself  in  a  thick  veil. 

"1  charge  all  present  to  observe  strict  silence  regarding  tliat  which  they  have  wit- 
nessed!" said  Andrea  in  a  tone  of  authority. 

"Sir,  I  shall  certainly  not  betray  the  fact  that  the  Emperor  Charles  was  here  to-night 
and  made  your  acquaintance,"  said  the  monarch  coldly. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  splashing  of  the  oars  of  two  gondolas  was  heard.  They  proceeded 
rapidly  in  different  directions. 

"Well  prince,  is  it  not  your  duty  to  perform  the  office  of  a  knight  to  this  charming, 
but  unfortunate  lady?"  asked  Charles  V. 

Alfonso  made  no  reply. 

"The  veil  worn  by  Laura  Costuchio  is  of  blue  and  silver,"  continued  the  emperor,  "and 
have  you  not  a  glove  of  blue  and  silver  on  your  hat?  I  siiould  be  sorry  to  think  ill  of  one 
of  my  cousins.    A  man  may  be  untrue  to  a  lady  without  being  guilty  of  a  breach  of  honour ; 


TIZIAN'S    MISTRESS,    AFTKK    Tl/lAX     \  KCEM-K).  205 

but  wlieii    he   slicwa  tlie  pliicld  uiul  coloui'fi  on  his  l)aiuu'r,  ;is  you  ilo,   1  dn  uot  .«ce  liow  lie 
can  free  himself  from  the  duty  of  defending  it." 

Confused,  the  Duke  raised  iiis  hand  to  his  hat  as  with  the  intention  of  tearing  off  the 
glove  which  had  calleil  fortii  this  lecture  fnim  the  Knij)cnir.  He,  however,  re-considered,  and 
offered  his  arm  to  his  mistress,  who  stood  Lathed  in  tears. 

"Permit  me  to  conduct  you  to  your  palace  in  Ferrara,  Signora,"  said  Alfonso  coldly. 
"You  are  out  of  your  element,  in  this  place." 

He  turned,  making  a  low  how  to  the  Emperor,  who  cordially  reached  him  his  hand. 

"I  hope  to  visit  you  soon.  Cousin,"  said  Charles,  "and  may  the  first  love  then  have 
come  into  possession  of  her  undisputed  right." 

Ordelaffi  left  the  saloon  with  the  retiring  couple. 

"Well,  sister  Maria,  how  do  3'ou  like  him  who  has  heen  represented  to  you  as  a  pattern 
of  amiability?"  This  ((uestion  was  .addressed  by  Charles  to  the  fair  young  lady,  who  hid 
been  an  anxious  spectator  of  the  scene  we  have  described. 

"Your  Majesty,  I  hope,  does  not  thing  of  representing  me  as  the  third  and  last 
Lady  to  whom  the  Duke  has  been  a  votary,"  replied  the  Princess  with  dignity. 

"Speech  is  free,"  said  Chai-les  rubbing  his  hands  with  evident  delight;  "A  lover  the 
less  makes  the  choice  more  easy,  and  lessens  the  torment!    What  say  you  Maria?" 

The  Princess,  who  in  spite  of  her  opposition  was  designed  by  the  Emperor  for  the 
King  of  Hungary,  made  no  answer. 

The  company  broke  up,  and  retired  for  the  night. 

Charles  called  Aretino  to  hini. 

"Sir  host,"  said  he,  "what  has  become  of  Laura  Cenci's  portrait?  I  think  if  you  would 
give  it  me  I  could  turn  it  to  account,  by  rendering  it  of  use  to  the  poor  painter." 

Aretino  opened  a  cupboard  in  the  wall,  from  which  he  took  the  desired  picture  and 
gave  it  to  the  Emperor,  who  «ith  his  own  hands  carefully  removed  it  from  the  rude  frame, 
rolled  it  up,  and  gave  it  to  a  servant. 

"Take  great  care  of  this,  Jan,"  he  said  in  the  Dutch  language,  "you  will  never  have 
a  more  valuable  treasure  under  your  charge." 

Aretino's  gondola  was  brought  to  the  landing  place  of  the  villa,  and  the'  Emperor,  at- 
tended only  by  his  servant,  was  rowed  to  the  city,  over  which  the  sun  was  rising  in  all  its 
magnificence. 

The  Emperor's  gondola  stopped  at  the  great  landing  stairs  of  the  Dogano.  Fol- 
lowed by  his  man,  he  ascended  the  steps  to  the  great  portal  of  the  palace,  which  was  guarded 
by  the  North  German  mercenaries  heavily  .armed  and  in  most  costly  dresses.  These  mer- 
cenaries offered  no  impediment  to  the  Emperor's  entering  the  hall,  where  Peloponnesians  in 
Turkish  attire  were  on  duty.  Here  were  no  closed  doors.  The  head  of  the  Republic  was 
ready  to  receive  applications  at  all  hours  of  the  day  or  night,  and  dispensed  his  powerful  ser- 


206  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

vices  to  all,  whctlier  rich  or  poor,  who  might  require  them.  The  Emperor  passed  unnoticeil 
by  the  guard,  until  he  readied  the  inner  chami)ers  where  he  was  surrounded  by  .four  negroes 
with  drawn  swords.  He  was  conducted  to  the  ante-chamber  of  the  Doge,  where,  lost  in  thought 
and  motionless,  on  a  large  cushioned  chair  sat  Andrea  Donate. 

The  noble  sprang  up  and  saluted  the  Emperor. 

"Lead  me  to  your  master,  Signor!" 

"I  regret  that  I  cannot  comply  witli  j-our  Majesty's  request.  His  Highness  is  at  this 
moment  presiding  in  tiie  'Little  Council,'  and  the  subject  under  consideration  is  the  ab- 
duction of  Laura  Cenci." 

"Then,  I  am  just  come  at  the  right  time.  Announce  me  to  the  well-meaning: 
gentlemen." 

"Most  gracious  Emperor,  I  dare  not  obey  you." 

"Well,  tiion,  shew  me  tlie  door  of  the  chamber  where  the  gentlemen  are  assembled; 
the  rest  I  will  take  upon  myself." 

"Muley,"  said  Donate  to  one  of  the  Ethiopians,  "point  out  the  Council  Chamber." 

The  negro  went  on  till  they  came  to  a  dark  red  velvet  curtain,  richly  embroidered  in 
gold;  to  this  he  pointed  with  his  sword.  Charles  V.  raised  one  end  of  it  in  his  hand;  mut- 
tering to  himself: — 

"If  this  were  not  imported  from  Augsburg,  I  know  not  where  such  expensive  stuff  is 
to  be  found.  If  the  people  here  think  a  Councillor's  place  worth  so  much,  I  should  like  to 
know  what  they  would  ask  for  the  Emperor's  might  and  majesty." 

A  contemptuous  smile  played  on  tlic  lips  of  Cliarles;  he  drew  the  curtain,  and  quickly 
opened  the  door. 

He  entered  a  chamber  about  ten  paces  square  and  divided  into  four  compartments; 
the  light  of  day  intruded  here  and  there  through  tlic  heavily  curtained  windows.  A  massive 
gilt  chandelier  was  suspended  from  the  ceiling,  over  a  table  with  red  drapery,  at  which  four 
persons  were  sitting  deeply  engaged,  and  conversing  in  a  low  tone.  All  four  were  old 
and  wore  ^eneraljle  looking  grey  beards.  None  of  them  shewed  any  sign  of  wonder 
or  surprise  when  the  Emperor  entered.  They  only  exchanged  some  significant  looks,  and 
continued  seated. 

"fiood  morning,  my  Lordsl"  said  the  Emperor.  "According  to  all  appearance  you 
have  made  a  long  night  of  it,  and  therefore  I  will  not  disturli  you  in  your  important  business. 
However,  I  must  greet  my  cousin  and  friend  the  Doge.    You  must  be  he,  Loredano!" 

He  turned  to  the  President  who,  instead  of  answering,  simply  inclined  his  head. 

"Judge  of  my  grief,"  said  the  Doge,  weakly  directing  his  large  black  eye  to  the  Em- 
peror, "that  I  could  not,  in  tlie  name  of  the  Republic,  receive  you  with  due  honours;  but,  you 
are  aware  that,  I  cannot  choose  any  other  course  tiian  that  which  my  duty  bids  me,  and  that 
duty  you  must  impose  upon  me  by  proclaiming  yourself  to  be  iiini,  wlio,  by  thegraceof  God,  is 
the  joy  of  the  world." 


TIZIANS    MISTKKSS.    AITKI;    TI/.IAN     VKCKLLIO.  •     207 

"I  am  a  wanior,"  answered  Charles  iiiipatiuiitly,  "and  I  hate  any  thing  like  prolixity. 
I  pity  you,  yon  good  old  men;  for,  the  observance  oi'  your  ceremonial  laws  seems  to  be  al- 
most too  mueh  for  you.   At  all  events,  I  see  you  know  me,  and  therefore  1  am  satisfied  .  .  ." 

"That  is  not  sufficient  for  us"  said  the  Doge  in  a  plaintive  tone.  "AVe  find  ourselves 
in  a  situatii>n,  witli  respect  .  .  ." 

"Your  situation  is  not  so  particularly  disadvantageous.  You  sit,  and  I  stand  here," 
said  Charles  somewhat  sharply. 

"Who  are  you?  AVe  beg  to  know  your  name  and  rank,'  groaned  the  Doge.  "You 
surely  must  know  that  wc  are  not  able  to  do  any  thing  till  this  imjiortant  preliminary  is 
concluded." 

"I  would  not  have  believed,"  said  the  Emperor,  and,  very  unusual  with  hint,  a  smile 
brightened  up  his  features,  "that  the  winged  lion  of  •?/.  J/flrco  was  so  uncommonly  slow  in  his 
movements.  Blexl  For  what  has  he  four  legs  and  two  wings  besides!  But  we  will  not  dis- 
cuss the  point;  I  must  perform  the  office  of  herald  in  my  own  person,  I  am  Charles  the  Fifth, 
Emperor  of  the  Holy  Eoman  empire,  King  of  Sjiain  .  .  .  Y"ou  will  disfjense  with  the  mention 
of  my  otlier  Dominions  in  Italy,  the  Netherlands,  Lorraine,  &c." 

The  old  gentlemen  rose  from  their  seats  as  quickly  as  they  could,  and  witii  their  heads 
bowed,  stood  in  a  row,  the  Doge  at  their  right.  The  Doge  begged  the  unmerited  favour  of 
being  allowed  to  embrace  the  Em])eror,  and  the  Council  kissed  his  hand;  after  wliich  the 
illustrious  guest  was  placed  in  a  seat  to  the  right  of  the  Doge. 

"1  must  beg  you,  above  all  things,"  said  Charles,  "not  to  talk  of  state  affairs  this  morn- 
ing. Your  ships  do  no  good  in  the  Sicilian  harbours,  and  it  would  not  be  amiss  if  you  warned 
your  officers  not  to  forget  that  they  not  only  have  to  do  with  the  Spaniards,  but  that  1  can 
give  a  hint  to  my  Xetherlandcrs  to  look  about  them  in  the  IMediterranean.  Well,  I  must  in- 
form you  tliat  my  ships  of  Avar  are  better  adapted  to  keep  proper  order  at  sea  than  your 
galleys  .  .  .  Ilaxc  you  not  a  secret  friendly  understanding  with  the  unbelieving  dogs,  the 
Tunis  and  the  Algerine  pirates?  Do  not  your  galleys  cliase  every  trading  vessel  that  is  not 
Venetian  into  the  claws  of  these  wolves,  in  order  that  the  Hag  of  Venice  alone  may  wave  on 
the  Mediterranean?  I  shall  be  obliged  to  have  your  men  of  war,  which  likewise  misbehave 
themselves,  brought  to  Algcziras  for  tlie  jmrpose  of  examining  and  punishing  the  crews." 

"Our  officers  have  a  great  objection  to  be  caught,  your  Majesty,"  observed  the  Doge 
dryly.    "They  are  not  easily  taken!" 

"Think  you  so,  Cousin?"  rejoined  the  Emperor,  his  eyes  sparkling.  "I  opine  that  if  I 
came  here,  and  waited  till  they  came  home,  they  would  not  easily  escai)e  me.  Tlie  water  of 
your  terrible  Lagoons,'"  continued  diaries,  smiling,  "would  certainly  not  run  into  the  boots 
my  AVallonian  cavalry!" 

"Gracious  Emperor!  The  proof  of  the  maccaroni  is  in  the  eating!"  returned  the  Doge 
with  a  faint  smile.  "But  if  our  officers  have  been  guilty  of  any  imprudence,  they  shall  be 
called  to  account  for  it.  I  ask  pardon  I'or  having,  contrary  to  the  express  wish  of  your  Ma- 
jesty, alluded  to  state  affairs." 


208 


THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


"Good, — My  private  business  here  may  be  suiiimed  u[)  in  a  few  words.  I  am  here  to 
have  myself  painted.  .  .  ." 

The  Venetians  hung  their  heads. 

"Now,  you  have  taken  it  into  your  heads  to  apprehend  the  painter  and  iieep  him  in 
prison.    May  I  be  allowed  to  enquire  when  you  intend  to  set  him  at  liberty?" 

"Your  Majesty!  the  examination  into  the  painter's  crime  has  only  just  commenced." 

"Crime!  I  have  never  heard  of  it — perhaps  you  mean  some  otlier  painter,  and  iKjt 
Tizian?" 

"As  you  have  mentioned  the  name,  gracious  sovereign,  I  declare  him  to  be  Tizian. 
He  is  the  most  >vorthy  to  paint  a  hero  and  a  ruler  like  the  Emperor  Charles." 

"I  thank  you,  in  Tizian's  name,"  said  the  Emperor  with  increasing  vivacity.  "I  shall 
certainly  not  attempt  to  intcrruiit  the  course  of  your  judicial  proceedings;  but,  really,  when  I 
think  of  the  slowness  and  round-about  way  in  which  you  conduct  them,  I  must  confess  I 
sincerely  pity  your  first  painter.  What  do  mean  to  do  Avith  him?  You  surely  cannot  intend 
to  place  his  life — " 

"Higher  personages  than  he,"  intcrrnjitcd  the  Doge  with  a  serious  mien,  "have,  been 
banished  for  life  for  a  less  crime  than  his,  and  iiave  even  suifered  the  punishment  of  death. 

"Cousin;"  said  the  Emperor,  rising,  "I  am  tolerably  well  informed  of  the  .so-called 
crime  of  Tizian's.  Dare  not  a  Venetian  fall  in  love,  but  he  must  be  called  upon  to  give  an 
account  of  himself?" 

"Your  Majesty  is  pleased  to  jest!  Who  would  pretend  to  subject  the  feelings  and 
thoughts  of  man  to  an  investigation?  That  is  for  God  alone!  But,  when  these  thoughts  and 
feelino-s  are  in  any  way  expressed,  avc  are  responsible  for  them  to  the  Repul)lic.  If  any  man 
admire  a  Venetian  lady  and  wish  to  pay  her  his  addresses,  she  must  first  of  all  shew  her 
willingness  to  accept  his  addresses.  The  lady,  however,  cannot  give  her  consent  without  the 
approval  of  her  parents  or  relations,  and  they  cannot,  that  is,  if  the  lady  be  of  a  noble  family, 
conclude  any  marriage  contract  without  the  express  permission  of  the  Council.  The  nobility, 
as  a  body,  arc  wntchfulof  the  steps  taken  by  any  single  member. — Had  Tizian  the  consent  of 
our  ambassador  at  the  court  of  the  Duke  of  Ferrara  to  pay  his  court  to  the  daughter  of 
Signor  Tebaldo  Cenci?  And  this  is  not  all  that  Tizian  has  done — he  has  been  guilty  of  the 
abduction  of  Laura  Cenci,  thereby  casting  eternal  shame  upon  the  noble  family  to  which 
the  young  lady  belongs." 

"Well,"  replied  Charles,  "I'll  tell  you  what;  1  understand  something  of  honour.  Tizian 
ran  off  with  the  lady  to  protect  her  from  shame— Her  father  had  destined  her  for  one  of  the 
mistresses  of  the  Duke  of  Ferrara — How  stands  the  matter  now?" 

The  Doge,  smiling,  shook  liis  grey  head. 

"Mighty  Emperor!"  said  the  doge.  "Two  ants  found  a  drop  of  honey  from  a  wild  bees' 
nest.  As  they  could  not  agree  as  to  who  should  take  possession  of  the  drop,  oneof  them  put  his 
foot  into  it,  lifted  up  the  honey,  and  went  with  the  other  ant  to  the  lion.  The  lion  sent 
the  wasp  to  them  to  investigate  the  affair.   Thereupon  came  two  bears  and  quarrelled  about  the 


TIZIA.NS     MISTKESS,    AFTKH     T1/J,\N    VIA  l:\AM).  209 

hcpts'  nest.  The  wasp,  in  all  liaste,  i\e\v  to  the  lion  nnd  saich  'Send  me  again  that  1  may  pro- 
nounce sentence  tor  yoii."  'No,'  replied  the  lion,  'this  time  I  sec  clearly  how  the  case  stands, 
and  I  likewise  know  the  parties  concerned."  U[)<in  which  lie  raised  his  paw  and  struck  one 
of  the  bears  dead." 

"True!  True!"  muttered  Charles  to  iiiniself. 

"The  emi)ire  of  the  whole  Christian  world  is  ill-suited  for  a  V^cnetian  lawyer,"  con- 
tinued the  Doge.  "The  ruler  over  millions  is  deficient  in  one  great  qualification,  he  cannot  lie. 
If  Tizian's  crime  he  admitted,  we,  who  do  not  make  laws,  hut  only  administer  them,  should 
not  for  a  moment  hesitate  what  sentence  to  pass  upon  him.  No  man  is  allowed  to  commit 
a  crime  which  may,  possibly,  be  the  means  of  preventing  another.  Just  before  your  Majesty 
entered  we  were  about  to  pronounce  judgment;  banishment  for  life,  or  imprisonment  for  so 
long  as  the  subject  of  Laura  Cenci's  abduction  shall  remain  unforgotten." 

"And  how  long  do  you  consider  necessary  for  people  to  forget  the  subject?" 

"I  know  not;  but  their  memory  is  very  retentive,  Sire." 

A  pause  ensued,  in  \\hich  the  deepest  silence  prevailed. 

"Banish  the  painter!  Ila!  He  will  come  to  me  and  probably  he  will  not  grieve  about 
you  .  .  . 

"iSIighty  monarch!  A  Venetian  can  ijrcathe  no  air  but  that  of  Venice.  If  we  lianish 
Tizian  he  will  certainly  find  the  pains  and  mourning  of  Ovid  worthy  of  envy." 

St.  Marks'  clock  now  struck  ten.    It  was  five  o'clock  in  the  morningr. 

The  Doge  rose. 

"My  duty  calls  me,"  said  he,  bowing  reverentially.   "TJie  Council  of  Ten  is  assembled." 

"You  will  decide  the  fate  of  Tizian?' 

"We  shall,  your  Majesty!" 

"Conduct  me  to  the  Council  of  Ten,  cousin,"  said  Charles  shar]ily.  "It  is  the  Emperor 
who  demands  a  favour  which  has  never  been  granted  to  any  mortal  before  him.  " 

The  three  in  power,  taking  Charles  in  their  midst,  left  the  chamber  and  proceeded 
to  the  court  of  the  Council  of  Ten.  In  accordance  with  the  wish  of  the  Emjieror,  the  Doge 
carrj^ing  the  picture  of  Laura  Cenci  in  his  hand,  went  forwards  in  order  to  announce  his 
majesty. 

A  saloon,  apparently  without  windows,  was  opened  to  ihein.  A  row  of  tajjcrs  burnt 
upon  a  long  table,  at  which  sat  ten  persons  in  black  hai)iliuients  and  with  masks  over  their 
faces.    They  all  rose  as  the  Emperor  entered. 

Without  pronouncing  a  word  the  Doge  gave  the  picture  to  one  of  the  Council  who 
was  nearest  to  him.  It  was  passed  from  hand  to  hand  and  viewed  with  a  general  nunuiur  of 
astonishment. 

"I  will  ask  you,  reverend  Signors,  one  (juestion,"  said  Charles  with  a  ringing  voice. 
"I  ask  yon,  would  any  one  of  you  here  assembled,  in  your  youthful  days  have  felt  impervious 
to  the  attractions  which  this  picture  displays? — Your  hands  on  your  hearts  .  .  .  Answer!" 

Gallerieb  of  Vienna.  2  7 


210  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  Council  of  Ten  remained  silent. 

"You  have  spoken  Tiziau's  sentence!"  said  the  Emperor,  and  left  the  saloon. 

When  Charles  reached  the  villa  of  Pietro  Aretino,  he  met  Tizinn  who  wore  a 
dejected  look. 

"Where  is  your  lad)'?"  inquired  the  Emperor,  looking  eagerly  about. 

"In  the  city,  at  her  father's  palace,"  answered  Tizian. 

"Have  you  spoken  with  her?" 

"Yes,  your  Majesty." 

"How  strangely  you  answer,  one  would  suppose  30U  had  parted  from  your  mistress 
for  ever!"' 

"I  have  lost  her,  your  Majesty,"  cried  Tizian  deeply  agitated.  "She  is  the  bride  of 
Andrea  Donato.  The  choice  was  offered  her,  either  to  enter  a  convent,  or,  b}'  her  betrothal 
to  the  specious  Donato  to  save  me  from  a  fifteen  years'  imprisonment.  She  decided  on 
the  latter." 

"Ah,  these  deceitful  Carthaginians!"  was  the  only  remark  that  Charles  made,  and  he 
seemed  for  the  moment,  to  have  forgotten  that  he  was  'the  Emperor.' 

Signora  Laiu'a  Custochio,  being  now  freed  of  her  rivals,  soon  regained  the  love  of 
Alfonso  de  Ferrara,  who,  shortly  afterwards,  when  Charles  V.  left  Italy,  recalled  Tizian  to 
his  court. 


ATTACK  OF  CAVALRY, 


A.  J.  VAN  DEE  MEULEN. 


Van  der  Meulen  is  one  of  those  artists  whose  works  glorify  the  history  of  Louis  XIV. 
To  this  circumstance  the  fame  they  acquired  at  the  time  is  chiefly  to  be  imputed.  We  see 
them  to-day,  undazzled  by  that  false  glitter,  which  the  image  of  that  brilliant  despot  cast 
upon  them.  Anton  P\'anz  van  der  Meulen  was  born  in  Brussels  in  the  year  1634:  he  2)ursued 
his  studies  under  the  tuition  of  P.  Snayers,  and  was  considered  by  his  contemporaries  to 
hold  equal  rank  with  Wouwerman,  by  some  he  was  even  preferred.  The  opinion  of  the 
present  day  is  the  reverse.  Boldness,  a  degree  of  freshness,  and  a  certain  French  spright- 
liness  are  the  leading  features  of  the  landscapes  and  battle  pieces  of  Meulen.    The  latter,  in 


N 


^. 


^ 


^ 


R^n^oTiStjif 


.^oe<!>n^<>^z^aypu^ 


Bruolt  uVerla^d  EiigliechenKunatanstaJtvAH  Payne,  Leip'iif  8t  Dresden 


4^B4^-    f-ZTZ-J^/    ■ 


Vf^:<^ 


f^f/^/7-f('/^.e- 


REMBRANDT,  AFTER  A  PICTURE  BY  HIMSELF.  21  I 

an  historical  point  of  view,  are  valuable  for  the  extraordinary  correctness  observed  in  the 
local  scenery.  The  bright,  solid  colouring  is  one  of  the  chief  beauties  of  his  pictures. 
Meulen  died,  highly  respected,  in  Paris,  in  1690. 


R  E  31  B  R  A  N  D  T, 


A  PICTUBE  BY  HIMSELF. 


When  Rembrandt  was  about  to  paint  a  strictly  historical  subject,  or  picture  from  sacred 
history,  he  was  not  accustomed  to  lose  much  time  in  seeking  a  model:  he  would  take  the 
first  old  peasant  he  met,  his  servant  maid,  his  wife,  his  mother,  or  daughter,  dress  their  heads 
with  some  extraordinary  covering,  envelope  their  persons  in  an  out-of-the  way  kind  of  cloak, 
and,  as  the  models  moved  or  stood,  he  introduced  them  in  his  pieces;  and  if  pressed  for  a 
picture  he  had  recourse  to  his  own  portrait.  This  he  has  produced  in  all  cases  of  extremity 
and  more  than  a  hundred  'portraits  of  himself,'  painted,  or  etched,  are  in  existence.  Of 
these  portraits  not  two  are  to  be  found  which  exactly  resemble  each  otlier;  still,  they  are  all 
the  same  old  Rembrandt,  who  meets  our  view  under  the  most  powerful  and-diversified  effects 
of  liurht  and  shade. 


THE   HOLY   FAMILY, 


ANTON  VAN  DYCK. 


As  a  general  rule.  Van  Dyck's  saints  and  his  legendary  subjects  are  not  calculated 
to  make  a  pure  or  pleasant  impression.  We  seldom  or  never  find  the  ideal  connected  with  any 
striking  expression,  nor  truthfulness  to  nature  carried  out  to  the  purity  of  the  ideal.  This 
painter  is  certainly  deficient  in  point  of  solemn  earnestness;  he  does  not  convey  that  feeling 
of  inw:u"d  overpowering  strength  which  Rubens,  wlien  he  liked,  exhibited  in  ids  figures  in  a 
{)Owerful  degree. 

27* 


212  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIE>rNA. 

Van  Dyck's  Scripture  pieces  do  not  go  beyond  the  profane;  his  lieads  and  his  figures 
may  be  pleasing,  even  beautiful,  but  there  is  never  anything  celestial  about  them;  nor  are 
they  appropriate  to  the  design.  As  far  as  the  subject  represented  is  concerned,  they 
possess  no  more  personal  intei-est  than  a  number  of  persons  collected  for  the  purpose 
of  exliibiting  tahlpavx  vivants.  The  better  Van  Dyck  paints,  the  more  the  physical  truth  of 
his  figures  is  realized,  the  more  are  we  struck  with  his  incapacity  to  excite  that  enthusiasm 
whicli  the  subject  he  is  treating  should  produce. 

His  picture  of  The  Holy  Family  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  most  attractive  that 
this  painter  ever  produced.  We  must  not,  however,  look  for  an  attempt  to  depict  the  mystery 
that  the  woman  is  the  mother  of  the  God-Man,  nor  that  other  mystery  of  the  affection  which 
binds  Mother  and  Child.  The  affected  jiosition  of  the  latter  can  only  be  criticized  from  a 
picturesque  point  of  view.  The  head  of  .loseph,  on  the  contrary,  is  exquisite,  reminding  us 
of  the  finest  liead>)  by  Raphael,  at  the  same  time  there  is  a,  peculiarity  about  it  which  is 
essentially  Van  Dyck's.  In  this  picture  the  lights  are  delicate  and  broad,  and  though 
sometimes  rimning  into  extremes,  they  are  in  good  keeping. 


THE    CON  C  E  R  T, 


DAVID    TENIERS 


In  this  piece  the  great  luimorist  seems  to  ha^■e  hit  upon  the  idea  of  burlesquing  one 
of  those  scenes,  which  had  become  fashionable  amongst  the  higher  classes  of  his  time;  and, 
for  this  purpose,  he  resorts  to  his  fsiithful  boors  to  carry  out  his  design.  The  picture  is 
eminently  successful.  The  boors  and  tlieir  pi^hna  donna  are  evidently  deeply  impressed  with 
the  grandeur  of  their  performance.  In  viewing  the  piece  we  almost  fancy  we  hear  the 
screaming  c/iarirori  produced  by  their  united  efforts.  One  sees  that  in  this  case  likewise,  the 
rustic  artists  arc  capable  of  measuring  their  powers  with  those  of  their  superiors  in  rank. 


^^fc£tii512S«i 


asm 


K 


NKAPIIMTAN    KiSHEHMKN,    AFTKU    ./.    H.    HAl'CII.  213 


NEAPOUTAN  FISIIRKMFJ, 


AFTKR 

J.    R.    RAUCH. 


As  in  tlio  picture  of  llie  Bay  of  Baia,  liy  this  admirable  painter,  so  too  here  do 
we  discern  liis  great  poetical  knowledge  of  popular  Italian  life.  We  have  before  us  all  the 
primitiveness  of  the  Neajiolitan  seal'aring  race;  all  its  phases  are  represented — these  light, 
easy-minded  fishermen,  whose  Held,  meadow,  and  vineyard  is  the  sea.  Excellent  is  the  radiant 
atmosphere  which  lies  over  the  whole  scene,  and  which  even  in  the  darkest  shadows  possesses 
a  strong  reflecting  power. 


THE  FOUNDLING, 


FERDINAND   MALLITSCH. 


We  rarely  find  in  a  picture  of  modern  times  anything  more  appealing,  touching,  more 
iiolily  CIn-istian,  tjian  in  the  one  before  us.  The  reapers  return  home  from  the  field,  and 
find  an  iniant  in  a  basket,  left  by  an  unknown  hand.  The  motherly  heart  of  the  housewife 
overflows  as  siie  takes  the  child  in  her  arms;  the  children  shout;  the  charming  girl  with  the 
reaping  hook,  deeply  moved  and  full  of  foreboding,  looks  on  the  little  stranger;  while  the 
master  of  the  house  is  thinking  to  himself:  iMy  children  are  all  grown  up  and  I  do  not  see 
why  we  cannot  In-ing  up  another.  The  curate  pats  the  noble  minded  fellow  on  the  shoulder. 
We  hear  him  say:  'You  are  the  man  to  do  an  act  of  charity,  tiierefore  for  you  was  the  word 
written — Who  shall  receive  siudi  a  little  one  in  My  name,  receives  Jesus  Christ  himself.' 

Mallitsch  was  born  in  Graz  in  1S"2(). 


214  THE    GALLEKIES    OK    VIENNA. 


THE  FOUR  QUARTERS  OF  THE  WORLD, 


p.    p.    RUBENS. 


Rubens  is  one  of  tlie  painter-princes  wlio  represents  one  whole  epocii  in  the  history 
of  art.  With  the  exception  of  Raphael,  there  is  no  master  on  whose  works  so  much  has 
been  written  as  on  tiiose  of  Rubens.  He  has,  alternatoh^,  been  elevated  be3'onrl  the  greatest 
masters  that  ever  lived,  and  has  been  depreciated  in  the  same  ratio.  It  was  admitted  that 
other  great  painters  possessed  individual  excellences,  but  it  was  declared  that  all  these  were 
concentrated  in  Rubens.  On  the  other  side,  it  was  maintained  tliat  the  Netherlander  had  no 
real  feeling  for  art,  that  his  works  exhibited  but  a  gaudy,  insolent  representation  of  a  mere 
superficiality,  which  attempted  to  usurp  the  realms  of  thought  and  refined  feeling. 

Rubens  cannot  possibly  escape  the  observation  of  those  even  who  occupy  themselves 
but  little  with  the  arts.  He  has  talcen  care  that  no  one  shall  ignore  him.  His  power  shews 
itself  in  every  department  of  art,  and  for  the  most  part  superabundantly.  We  find  his  name 
on  all  sides,  in  whatever  province  of  painting  we  may  be.  In  every  large  gallery  we  visit 
his  magnificent  pictures  present  themselves  before  us  in  every  direction;  most  of  them,  from 
their  considerable  dimensions  and  their  brillancy  of  colour  throwing  into  .shade  all  others  in 
their  proximity. 

It  is  a  difficult  task  justly  to  estimate  Rubens;  this  arises  from  the  contrariety  of 
opinions  expressed  by  the  most  al)le  connoisseurs  on  the  works  of  this  master.  How  often 
in  the  modern  litei'ature  of  art  has  Rubens  been  shown  his  place  with  the  most  logical 
arguments.  But  this  painter  still  retains  the  position,  to  which,  according  to  these  profound 
deductions,  he  has  no  right. 

So  much  is  beyond  all  question,  that  Master  Peter  Paul  is  an  artist  whose  versatile 
genius  none  will  dispute.  He  is  at  home  in  every  department  of  painting.  He  painted  with 
equal  facility  a  large  historical  piece  and  a  lovely  genre  scene:  to  him  it  is  just  as  easy  to 
paint  a  battle  as  a  portrait.  Wild  beasts  fighting,  or  a  laughing  classical  mytii;  a  peasant's 
room;  a  landscape  or  a  mundane  historical  miracle;  the  embodiment  of  a  romantic  dream,  or 
any  public  transaction — none  of  these  present  any  difficulty  to  the  pencil  of  Rubens. 

And  not  as  thougli  the  painter  arranged  everything  in  a  convenient  manner  for 
himself,  as  if  he  weakened  and  reduced  the  various  mateiials  to  a  uniform  mediocrity,  in 
order  to  master  them!  All  appears  in  the  indication  of  characteristic  existence.  Rul)ens,  as 
all  liis  pictures  shew,  discovers  an  impetus  for  form  entirely  [)ecHliar  to  himself;  an  invincible 
desire  for  creation,  which,  notwithstanding  its  \ast  means,  was  scarcely  able  to  master 
the    j)rofusion   of   figures    struggling    for    life.     Each    note    struck    by   Rubens    calls    forth 


f^ 


^ 

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1 


i 


s-^-- -:S=.  Its-  -iJiV  -ATi 


rilK    I''Ol'l{    Ql'AIMKU'S    dl'     IIIi;    Wniv'M),    AI'IKI;     I'.    I'     lil'HENS.  215 

:i  stream  of  iKinnony — lilic  ilic  ni.-liiiiL;-,  iiowcriiil  ^diiiid  nt'  ilic  (iiumii.  liiiljens  never 
oi'oiioiuizc.*,  lie  is  as  lavish  as  ilu'  (irraf  MohiiI,  wIhi,  mi  flic  ilay  Ik:  asct'iid.s  the  tlironc, 
almost  wantonly  scatters  liaiuirMls  of  i;(il(l  coiiis,  aiii(iiij.'st  wiiiili  a  false  one  is  rarely  to  be 
detected. 

W'liat  |irofnsion!  What  remarkalile  suseeptihility  of  mind,  siiil  more  of  jjcninsl  AVhat 
l)erce|iti\e  I'aeiiltics,  power  of  delineation  and  comliinalioni  A  iiidst  iieculiarly  organized 
lieing,  who  sees,  feels,  and  thinks  in  figures  and  other  forms.  It  matters  not  how  remote  the 
material  may  lie  from  the  sphere  of  painting,  Ruhens  is  certain  to  find  tlic  point  wiiich  will 
enable  him  to  endow  it  witii  pieturcsipie  representation.  He  would  have  made  it  [)ossihle 
to  paint  the  substance  of  a  dissertation  upon  metaphysics.  In  whatever  way  his  snbjcet 
matter  presented  itself  before  him,  Rubens,  like  a  elc\er  general  whose  energies  never  I'ail 
him  when  he  is  attacked,  was  always  prepared  to  eneountcr  it. 

This  peculiarity  which  made  him  master  of  his  subject,  forms  at  the  same  time  the 
power  and  the — weakness  of  the  great  painter.  When  with  instinctive  certainty  he  has 
found  the  main  jioint,  upon  which  depends  the  representation  of  his  subject,  Rubens  troubles 
himself  vcr}'  little  whether  he  sacrifices  any  ideal  jiroperties  or  not  in  the  ])rocess  of  the 
Ibrmation.  lie  always  displays  more  show  than  feeling;  the  outward  action  therefore  takes 
precedence  of  the  inner,  and  this  often  appears  in  a  very  disproportionate  manner.  Where 
the  idea  should  represent  the  sentiment,  Rubens  frecjuently  gives  position,  action,  grouping. 
As  far  as  regards  superfluity  in  the  sense  of  the  action — he  is  seldom  remiss.  He  never 
fails,  however,  in  his  colouring  to  convey  the  impression  of  the  general  aspect,  the  tone, 
whereby  he  lends  interest  to  the  most  unimportant  matter. 

The  figures  of  Rubens  are  forms  of  his  own  creation.  He  uses  them  for  his  purpose 
without  ever  ceding  to  them  an  ascendancy  over  liis  person.  He  is  never  so  passive  as  to 
mourn,  to  surter  with  his  figm-es;  to  follow  their  devout  contcmj)lations,  or  to  rejoice  in  tlieir 
nobility  of  soul;  in  short,  he  does  not  follow  their  feelings  in  order  that  he  himself  may 
be  filled  with  them.  Rubens  sees  only  how  his  figures  supplicate,  suft'er,  tremble  with  fear, 
or  shout  for  joy.  He  cannot  therel'ore  represent  them  as  what  they  ai'c,  but  he  presents 
them  as  they  appear  at  a  given  moment. 

Rubens  is,  therefore  in  a  good,  and  in  a  bad  sense,  a  theatrical  painter.  His  chief 
point  is  the  action,  if  under  this  term  may  be  understood  position,  motion,  grouping.  He 
often  gives  action  where  there  is  no  apparent  motive  for  it.  The  purport  of  the  action, 
however,  does  not  pre-ordain  the  manner  of  the  representation,  as  is  the  case  with  Ra[)hael. 
Therefore  the  figures  are  frequently  only  performers  of  certain  parts,  with  which  in  reality 
they  symjiathize  as  little  as  actors  do  with  the  characters  cast  for  them. 

These  are  certainly  strong  reproaches;  but  Rubens'  shoulders  are  broad  enough  to 
bear  them,  he  still  remains  a  great  painter. 

Rubens  lived  in  that  important  period  in  the  worlds  history  which  seriously  affected 
the  arts.  Church  reform  was  busy  on  the  stage  of  the  world,  and,  even  in  the  Netherlands, 
conflicting  disputes  raged  between  the  Dissenters  and  the  adherents  to  the  old  Church. 


216  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Holland  proper,  and  Brabant  with  Flanders,  were  separated  by  an  interminable,  vital 
breach.  There  prevailed  reform,  here  the  conservative  element  in  mattert<  of  faith.  The 
Dutch  made  a  resolute  stand  against  pictorial  representations  of  legends,  and  against  all 
pictures  of  an  essentially  Catholic  tendency.  Those  Dutch  painters,  who  became  proselytes 
to  the  new  doctrine,  could  make  no  use  of  their  Madonnas,  their  martyrs,  saints,  and  all  the 
miracles  associated  with  them.  The  myth  of  the  Catholic  Church  was  as  a  dead  letter  to 
these  masters.  Formerly  Biblical  and  Christian  legendary  history  were  united,  and  formed 
one  great  whole  answering  to  all  conditions  of  men.  It  was  the  legend  which  filled  up  the 
breach  betwen  temporal  and  purely  supersensuous  matters.  The  Church  legends  having  been 
condemned,  those  painters  who  were  advocates  for  reform,  had  nothing  left  but  plain  Biblical 
history  to  work  from,  to  give  expression  to  a  cold  insipid  dogma,  and  real  life  only  for  their 
artistic  designs,  if  they  would  not  indulge  in  the  creations  of  their  fancy.  This  province  of 
art  was  in  embryo.  Those  artists,  as  yet,  knew  not  the  advantages  they  had  gained  by 
having  freed  themselves  from  the  Christian  legend,  comprehensive  certainly,  Init  appertaining 
in  fact  to  one  and  the  same  sphere  of  ideas;  they  knew  not  that  their  minds  were  being 
directed  to  ever  progressive  human  culture.  At  first  they  were  at  a  loss  for  suitable  means 
to  supply  what  Avas  wanting,  and  how  to  sujijily  their  ideas  with  a  typical  form.  But  few 
Biblical  figures  were  calculated  for  the  development  of  warm  and  glowing  life,  if  they  were 
to  be  in  keeping  with  the  dogmas  of  the  new  doctrinal  notions.  In  this  case  nothing 
remained  for  them  but  to  turn  to  the  Old  Testament,  which  then  became  ransacked  by 
all  parties. 

Moreover  the  specifically  Catholic  pictures  exhibited  such  obviously  onesided  views 
that,  by  the  nicest  combination,  they  could  not  be  concealed.  The  figures  of  saints  were 
made  to  convey  certain  ideas  corresponding  with  the  story  of  their  lives.  We  will  only  call 
to  mind  the  host  of  Magdalens  as  personifications  of  atonement.  St.  Jerome,  as  the  type 
of  abstinence  and  firm  faith  in  God,  who  could  even  make  bread  out  of  stones;  St.  Martin 
and  the  holy  Landgravine  Elizabeth,  as  jiersonifications  of  charitableness  and  compassion; 
St.  Antony,  as  respecting  the  resistance  of  the  temptations  of  the  world  and  the  Devil — not 
to  mention  the  most  special  allusions  to  human  life,  as  presented  in  the  fourteen  holy  helpers 
in  need,  the  patron  saints  for  individual  classes,  &c.  It  had  become  the  general  custom  to 
express  the  desired  idea  by  means  of  corresponding  saints  allegorically  indicated.  By  this, 
nature,  from  which  every  eflFective  expression  in  art  must  be  Ijorrowed,  (for  it  is  totally 
impossible  to  represent  the  supersensuous,)  by  degrees  became  lost  sight  of.  A  style  of  painting 
prevailed  which  represented  the  figures  of  saints  in  action,  figures  in  which  life  had  long 
been  extinct,  and  whose  typical  forms  could  make  no  claim  to  anticjue  purity.  The  Catholic 
pictures  of  saints  had  degenerated  into  one  general,  feeble  idea  and  style  of  representation. 
Under  these  circumstances  were  introduced  special  notabilities,  donators,  or  other  personages 
from  real  life — in  accordance  with  the  old  disgraceful  custom — into  the  pictures  of  saints: 
these  are  the  more  insufferable  for  their  being  conspicuous,  and  irreconcilable  with  the 
established  motive  for  artistic  contrast. 

The  state  of  the  case  was,  that,  either  the  Catholic  manner  of  painting  must  sink 
into  decline,  or,  to  assist  its  efficacy,  some  new  element  must  of  necessity  be  introduced. 
Nature,  raised  to  the  ideal  by  a  suitable  form  in  the  tenor  of  the  composition,  must  again  be 


THE  FOl'K  QUARTERS  OE  THE  WOKl-l),  AETEH  1>.  I'.  KL'HENS.  217 

made  inHucntial,  wliicli  nw»t  of  tlio  _i;rt^at  Italian  masters  eftecteil:  tlie  fiLnires  of  saints  must 
immetliately  exeite  interest  through  the  iiiHuenee  of  tliC  human  feeliujis;  from  iree  motives,  anil 
not  from  a  triiditional,  monotonous  schematicism,  must  the  saints  again  in  a  direet  manner 
penetrate  the  hearts  of  living  humanity.  This  was  uiu|uesti(inalily  a  task  which  none  but 
a  great  artist  would  be  able  to  aceomiilish.  From  the,  frequently,  very  meagre  details,  given 
in  the  legends,  respecting  the  persons  of  their  heroes,  it  required  a  powerful  stretch  of  the 
imagination  to  produce  a  picture  so  perfectly  unaffected  in  its  portrayal  of  life,  tliat  it  would 
operate  not  only  upon  the  al)Stract  reflexion  but  also  upon  the  feelings  of  the  beholder. 

Here  was  the  question  for  the  regeneration  of  Catholic  painting,  which  depended 
upon  Master  Rubens  to  solve,  as  far  as  the  state  of  culture  in  his  time  would  admit 
of  it.  This  achievement  of  Rubens"  alone  considered,  he  may  be  called  the  clianipion  of  the 
Catholic  Church,  who  deserves  to  be  regarded  by  all  her  members  with  veneration.  jNIost 
of  the  literary  champions  of  that  time,  so  disturbed  by  theological  differences,  are  now  known 
only  to  professional  students;  the  theological  polemics  of  both  parties,  together  with  their 
folio  and  quarto  volumes,  are  of  interest  now  to  only  the  Church  and  culture  historian.  But 
Rubens  with  his  glowing  coloured  pictures,  as  he  did  two  centuries  ago,  shews  in  the  present 
time  the  substance  of  his  creed,  openly  upon  all  the  walls  of  the  great  temples  of  art,  and 
waits  for  an  opponent  in  form  and  colour. 

Although  this  ai'tist,  according  to  his  life  and  works,  belonged  to  the  Netherlands, 
still  the  Germans  are  proud  that  he  was  born  in  the  German  city  of  Cologne.  His  father, 
Johann  Rubens,  was  a  doctor  of  laws,  and  assistant  judge  in  the  great  city  of  Antwerp, 
and  was  one  of  the  great  number  of  those  emigrants  who  escaped  witii  their  lives  from  the 
blood-thirsty  Spaniards.  Johann  Rubens,  who  always  remained  a  Catholic,  seems,  through 
his  having  defended  the  civil  privileges  of  his  native  city,  to  have  called  forth  the  sworn 
vengeance  of  the  Spaniards  upon  his  head;  and  he  was  as  near  as  possible  being  the  twenty- 
sixth  of  those  noble  Netherlanders  who,  a  few  days  before  the  decapitation  of  the  Counts 
Egmond  and  Hoorn,  were  brought  to  the  block,  and  whose  heads  were  struck  off  by  the 
hand  of  the  executioner. 

For  some  years  Cologne  had  been  the  asylum  for  the  Netherland  emigrants.  Here 
too  Johann  Rubens  with  his  very  young  w'ife,  Maria  Pypelinks — a  very  talented  woman — 
met  with  a  friendly  reception.  The  fugitive  had  saved  a  considei-able  portion  of  his  large 
property,  and  very  soon  took  up  a  highly  respectable  position  amongst  his  new  fellow  citizens. 
He  lived  in  the  family  mansion  of  the  Count  Groosfeldt  in  the  Sternc/asse,  Cologne. 

At  this  residence,  in  the  year  1577,  was  born  the  second  son  of  the  former  assistant 
judge,  on  the  day  of  St  Peter  and  St  Paul;  the  boy  who  was  to  rise  to  be  the  prince  of 
painters.  Peter  Paul  Rubens — according  to  his  own  statement  at  a  later  period — remained 
up  to  his  tenth  year  in  Cologne.  After  the  death  of  his  father,  in  15S7,  his  widowed  mother 
longed  to  return  to  her  native  home,  where  she  hoped  that,  through  the  influence  of  wealthy 
relations,  a  better  future  might  be  opened  to  her  seven  children  than  by  their  remaining 
in  exile. 

On  their  arrival  in  Antwerp,  a  Countess  Lalaing  offered  to  take  young  Peter  Paul 
into  her  service  as  page,— an  office  in  which,  at  that  time,  the  cavaliers  and  coiu-tiers  used 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  28 


218  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

to  commence  their  career.  The  young  page,  however,  could  not  accomodate  himself  to  this 
subordinate  situation,  with  which  were  connected  various  services  of  a  derogatory  nature. 
Of  a  passionate  and  ambitious  temperament  the  youth,  after  a  dispute  with  his  noble 
patroness,  was  not  long  before  he  made  up  his  mind,  and,  of  his  own  accord,  left  the 
service  of  the  lady. 

His  mother,  seeing  that  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  the  vocation  in  life  for  her 
favorite  son,  decided,  in  compliance  with  the  will  of  her  enraged  relatives,  that  Peter  Paul 
should,  like  his  fatlier,  follow  the  profession  of  a  lawyer.  The  youth  had  received  an  education 
sufficient  to  qualify  him  for  entering  upon  this  learned  career.  He  possessed  a  remarkable 
talent  for  languages,  and  could  express  himself  equally  well  in  Latin,  French,  Spanish, 
German,  and  Dutch. 

While  the  necessary  preparations  were  making  for  his  entering  the  university,  l-'aul 
determined  upon  a  career  for  himself.  He  would  be  a  painter.  With  respect  to  art,  it  seems 
that  he  had  no  regular  education  whatever.  When  Kubens,  later  in  life,  declared  that  he  had 
inherited  his  talent  for  drawing  and  painting,  he  j)rol>alily  alluded  to  the  decided,  natural 
capacity  for  art  possessed  by  his  mother  or  his  maternal  grandfather.  It  may  be  here 
observed,  that  the  contemplation  of  the  rich  treasures  of  art  contained  in  the  old  Colonia 
Aitgusta.  had  not  been  made  without  producing  an  effect  upon  the  future  painter.  After  long 
family  debates  Kubens  was  placed  under  Tobias  Verhaegt  as  his  pupil. 

Master  Tobias  was  a  singular  man.  Furnished  with  fundamental  knowledge  and 
endowed  with  fine  taste,  he  practised  his  art  more  as  an  amateur  for  his  amusement,  than 
in  the  capacity  of  a  painter  whose  existence  dejjends  upon  his  productions.  Being  well 
acquainted  with  mathematics,  Verhaegt,  till  he  arrived  at  an  advanced  age,  directed  his 
mind  to  jierspective  studies,  and  in  this  department  of  art  he  took  the  precedence  of  all  his 
coteniporary  countrymen.  Verhaegt  painted  landscapes,  sea  pieces,  and  figin-es  with  equal 
excellence.  He  well  understood  imposing  colour,  for  which  he  displayed  fine  feeling,  the 
result  of  his  observations  in  the  pictures  of  the  great  Italian  masters  which  he  had  studied 
on  the  spot. 

While  with  Verhaegt,  Rubens  painted  historical,  or,  as  they  were  called,  heroic  land- 
scapes, with  ruins  of  ancient  buildings  and  accessories,  generally  of  an  allegorical  signification. 
Verhaegt  was  very  fond  of  allegory.  He  represented  the  months  and  seasons,  the  four 
divisions  of  the  day,  the  hours  of  day  and  night,  by  means  of  figures  after  the  style  of  the 
antique,  but  with  additions  according  to  his  fancy.  After  painting,  in  his  manner,  "The  four 
Elements,"  this  master  aspired  even  to  "The  four  Ages  of  the  World,"  and  "The  four 
Monarchies,"  which  at  that  time  formed  the  fundamental  system  of  universal  history.  "The 
four  Quarters  of  the  World,"  by  Rubens,  precisely  accord  ^vith  the  taste  of  Verhaegt. 

Confident  that  he  had  acquired  all  that  could  i)e  learned  in  the  sphere  in  which 
Verhaegt  moved,  Rubens  left  his  master  and  studied  under  Van  Oort;  but  this  painter, 
likewise,  did  not  know  how  to  employ  the  powerfully  developing  genius  of  his  scholar.  Otto 
van  Veen,  or  Venius,  was  the  first  who  was  able  to  lead  Rubens  into  the  right  path. 

Veen  treated  the  young  painter  as  his  equal.  He  exempted  him  from  all  the  tedious 
labour  and  loss  of  time  to  which,  according  to  the  old  rules,  young  students  were  subjected. 


TIIK    FOrK    QUAUTEUS    OF    THE    WORLD,    AFTER    P.    P.    RUBENS.  219 

ami  at  once  led  him  to  the  study  ol'  the  great  Italian  masters.  Veen  maintained  that  almost 
all  Hiibcns  could  do  in  the  Netherlands  was  .superfluous,  and  strongly  insisted  upon  his 
re|>airing  to  Italy  as  soon  as  po.ssihle. 

Although  l)ut  twonty-tliree  years  old,  Rubens  already  was  numbered  amongst  the 
greali'st  masters  of  the  Netherlands.  In  composition  he  could  vie  witli  any;  he  had  a  thorough 
knowledge  of  perspective,  and  he  was  a  good  anatomist.  At  this  time  even  he  evinced  a 
feeling  for  grand  and  brilliant  colour.  These  perfections  had  already  attracted  to  the  artist 
the  attention  of  the  Stadtholdcr  of  the  Netherlands,  Areiiduke  Alhrecht,  who  secured  for  Rubens 
a  reception  in  Ithly  that  few  young  artists  who  have  crossed  tlie  Alps  have  ever  enjoyed. 

On  the  nintii  of  May,  1600,  Rubens  set  out  on  his  journey  to  Italy;  lie  first  of  all 
repaired  to  V^cnice,  but  afterwards  went  to  Mantua,  to  introduce  himself  to  the  Duke 
Vincenzio  (ionzaga.  In  order  to  pronu)te  the  interests  of  the  young  stranger  who  had  been 
so  expressly  recommended  to  liim,  the  Duke  created  him  a  cavalier  of  his  court,  and  with 
this  gave  him  the  most  certain  expectation  of  being  graciously  received  in  Rome,  Florence, 
Genoa,  Milan,  &c. 

From  thence  Rubens  proceeded  to  Rome.  Here  Michel  Angelo  ciiietly  attracted  him; 
his  influence  is  perceptible  in  many  of  Rubens'  later  pictures.  The  Duke  Cionzaga  commissioned 
him  to  paint  a  series  of  copies  from  the  works  of  Raphael  and  his  scholars,  and  Rubens  pro- 
duced nobly  conceived  coloured  sketches  which  excited  general  admiration.  At  this  period  the 
original  pictures  by  this  master  are  distinguished  by  an  elevated  chasteness  of  composition, 
a  bold,  harmonious  drawing,  and  by  the  grand  treatment  of  the  masses  of  light  and  shade. 

In  the  year  1605,  Rubens  Mas  recalled  to  Mantua  by  the  Duke  Gonzaga.  lie  received 
tiie  commission  to  take  over  to  King  Philipp  IV.  of  Spain,  a  magnificent  caroche  with  six 
splendid  horses,  as  a  present  from  the  duke.  Rubens  proceeded  to  Madrid  where  he  was 
overladen  with  favours.  He  painted  the  king  and  many  of  the  superior  persons  of  the 
court,  and  eclipsed  all  the  Spanish  painters,  Diego  Velasquez  de  Silva  not  excepted.  After 
sojourning  some  time  in  Spain  Rubens  returned  to  Mantua,  and  soon  afterwards  again  went 
to  Rome. 

He  here  turned  at  once  to  the  original  source,  which  had  fecundated  the  imagination 
of  Michel  Angelo  and  Raphael — the  antique.  Rubens  and  his  brotlier  Philipp,  who  had 
arrived  here  from  the  Netherlands,  published  a  work  on  Roman  antiquities  which  possesses 
great  merit,  particularly  the  six  plates.  The  ])ainter"s  residence  in  Genoa  gave  rise  to  a 
second  work — views  of  the  most  remarkable  j)alaces  and  churches  in  the  great  Republic. 

Of  the  original  pictures  which  Rubens  produced  at  this  time,  that  in  the  Belvedere 
Gallery,  "The  Miracle  of  St.  Ignatius  on  one  possessed  with  devils,"  takes  the  first  rank.  It 
is  a  perfect  master-piece  and  is  of  considerable  dimensions.  Tlie  figures  are  life-size  and  make 
a  powerful  imi)ression;  the  action  is  in  keeping  with  the  subject;  the  composition  diversified, 
but  at  the  same  time  clear;  the  ct)louring  beyond  all  praise.  Perhaps  we  might  complain 
the  excessive  glaringness  of  the  high  lights. 

In  Genoa  Ruljens  received  the  intelligence  that  his  mother,  whom  he  dearly  loved, 
was  on  her  death-bed,  and  that  she  longed  to  see  him.  Obeying  the  impulse  of  his  feelings, 
the   painter  mounted   his   horse,   and   in  the  most  dreadful  weather  pursued  his   course  as 

28* 


220  'fHE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

quickly  as  possible  to  Antwerp,  but  arrived  too  late;  his  mother  was  dead  (October  9th  1608.) 
In  his  despair  lie  resolved  to  bury  himself  in  a  cloister.  He  secluded  himself  in  the  Abbey 
of  St.  Michael,  where  he  remained  four  months.  A  letter  from  the  Duke  of  Mantua  brought 
him  again  into  contact  with  the  outward  world.  The  Duke's  letter  contained  expressions 
of  affectionate  condolence,  urging  him  as  soon  as  possible  to  leave  Antwerp,  where  he  would 
ever  be  painfully  reminded  of  his  loss,  and  to  come  to  Mantua,  where  he  was  awaited  with 
heart-felt  anxiety. 

Rubens  resolved  to  obey  the  summons  of  his  noble-minded  patron,  and  to  bid 
farewell  to  the  Netherlands,  and.  like  man}-  other  artists  of  northern  nations,  find  a  second 
home  on  the  sunny  shores  of  Italy.  He  considered  it,  however,  as  an  indispensable  duty, 
before  taking  ids  departure,  to  acknowledge  his  thanks  and  devotedness  to  the  Archduke 
Albert,  tiie  founder  of  his  brilliant  position.  The  Stadtholder  had  meanwhile  felt  great 
interest  for,  and  kept  an  eye  upon  the  painter  who  had  so  rapidly  earned  celebrity,  waiting 
only  for  him  to  return  from  his  life  of  seclusion  in  8t.  Michael,  to  carry  out  his  resolution 
to  retain  the  painter  for  Belgium  on  any  terms.  At  the  court  of  Brussels  he  was  so 
splendidly  and  graciously  received,  the  Regent  so  flatteringly  entreated  Rubens  to  be  allowed 
to  consider  him  as  belonging  to  his  court,  and  urged  the  claims  which  his  country  had  upon 
him  with  such  irresistable  force,  and  he  was,  moreover,  so  besieged  by  the  entreaties  of  the 
Regentess,  the  Infanta  Clara  of  Spain,  that  Rubens  ventured  no  opposition,  and  gave  his 
promise  not  to  leave  the  Netherlands.  The  only  thing  the  painter  desired  was,  notwith- 
standing his  having  the  honour  of  being  a  cavalier  of  the  court,  the  concession,  granting 
him  iiermission  to  take  up  his  abode  in  Antwerp.  Not  till  a  later  ])eriod — supposed  to  have 
been  on  the  23rd  of  September  1(309 — was  Rid)ens  made  painter  to  the  court. 

It  was  now  time  for  Rubens  to  establish  a  home  for  himself.  The  din  of  war 
had  ceased.  Under  the  form  of  a  twelve  years'  armistice  came  peace  to  an  exhausted 
people.  Rubens  commenced  at  once  the  building  of  a  house  suitable  for  his  purpose.  This 
was  carried  out  in  the  style  of  the  Italian  architecture;  for  to  the  painter  there  were  so 
many  happy  and  splendid  reminiscences  connected  with  that  country. 

For  the  arrangement  of  his  vahiable  collection  of  sculptures,  pictures,  mosaic  and 
cabinet  work,  Rubens  built  a  rotunda  in  the  antique  style,  and  lighted  from  above,  between 
the  court  and  magnificent  garden  of  his  estate.  This  was  a  fairy  palace  which  soon  ranked 
with  the  greatest  sights  of  Antwerp,  and  acquired  a  universal  reputation.  In  the  year  1609 
Rubens,  overcome  by  the  charms  of  the  delicate,  intellectual  and  beautiful  Isabella  Brant, 
conducted  her  as  his  wife  into  his  brilliant  mansion. 

Tills  was  the  period  when  the  painter  really  developed  his  powers.  He  threw  off  all 
school  constraint;  he  was  deeply  impressed  with  the  simple  greatness  of  the  Italian  masters 
at  the  period  of  their  highest  bloom,  and  possessed  the  forcible  sterling  quality  of  a  perfectly 
practiced,  but  at  the  same  time  fresh,  genuine  power  of  conception  and  representation.  The 
works  which  he  at  this  time  produced  belong  to  the  master-creations  of  the  artist. 

Probably  his  first  great  picture  after  his  return  from  Italy  is  of  "St.  Mary  Ildephonsus" 
an  altar-piece  with  wing  pictures  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery.  The  principle  picture  shows  the 
Virgin  Mary  attended  by  four  female  martyrs  of  striking  beauty.    She  consecrates  St.  llde- 


TllK     KOUK    QL'AKTKKS    OV    TUK     \V()1;1>1),    AFTKK     I'.    I'.    KUKEXS]  221 

plionsiis,  tlie  secoml  patrmi  of  Spain,  af'tor  St.  James,  as  a  l)islu)p;  at  tlie  saiiR'  time  she 
delivers  to  him  a  magiiiticent  sacenlntai  I'obe.  On  tlic  side  winjis  appear  tiic  Archduive 
Alherf,  witii  liis  patron  saint  St.  Alliert,  and  the  Arcluhiehes.s  Isabella  Clara  with  St.  Clara. 
The  treatment  is  simple,  the  groupinL;'  arranged  in  hold,  ea.sy  forms  all  hreatiics  a  nol)le,  a 
lofty  solemnity,  a  hoi}-,  radiant  religious  jo}'.  Tiic  figures  in  the  eentre  picture  are  full 
bodied  and  glowing  with  life,  but  without  exhibiting  that  voluptuous  overfulncss  in  the  flesii, 
observaWe  in  many  of  llid)ens'  later  female  figures.  The  drajiery  is  grand  and  eonsonant 
with  the  subject;  indescribably  splendid  is  the  colour  saturated  with  light;  it  forms  an  uiii(iue 
harmonious  glory  round  the  beautiful  female  figures. 

Another  picture  of  the  same  period — -"Christ  on  the  Cross,  between  the  two  Tiiieves, 
with  Mary  JMagdalene  and  others  mourning" — is  as  artistically  grouped,  and  discovers  much 
more  inward  strength.  This  piece,  too,  displays  simjdicity  in  the  composition  with  very  effective 
arrangement.  The  three  crosses  appear  to  the  beholder  in  a  diagonal  direction.  By  this  we 
feel  the  death  of  Jesus  on  the  most  gloomy  side,  touching  the  very  soul — he  died  by  the 
hands  of  the  executioner.  Longinus  uses  his  spear  to  ascertain  whether  the  Messias  be 
really  dead  and  descended  into  hell,  in  order  that  the  Easter-triumph  with  its  Resurrection- 
banner  may  shine  with  greater  certainty  to  the  end  of  days,  and  may  calm  the  trembling 
minds  of  ignorant  mortals,  who  by  millions  await  their  last  hour  before  the  awful  gates  of  death. 

Those  who  would  admire  the  colouring  which  Kubens  was  able  to  produce,  need  only 
look  at  his  "  Chyisfus  a  la  pallle.'' 

In  this  picture  is  the  composition  likewise  simple,  but  the  expression  in  the  persons 
the  more  powerful.  The  style  of  colouring  is  grand  and  free,  and  its  fine  detail,  as  well  as 
the  breadth,  is  alike  worthy  of  admiration.  The  gradation  of  tints,  so  l)eautifully  transparent, 
may,  perhaps,  in  this  picture  be  seen  to  greater  ad\antage  then  in  most  of  the  Italian 
prototypes  of  the  master.  In  this  piece  the  fiesh  tints  come  up  very  nearly  to  the  natural 
colour  of  life,  in  which  every  little  difference  of  tone  is  clearly  perceptible,  because  the  figures 
in  the  picture  occupy  the  immediate  foreground.  To  make  here  a  comparison  between 
Tizian  and  Kubens,  we  might  assert  that  the  nude  figiu'e  of  the  great  Venetian  seems  at 
a  greater  distance  from  the  eye,  less  through  the  peculiar  effects  of  light  and  perspective, 
than  from  his  manner  of  colouring:  the  little  varieties  of  tones  in  Tizian's  works  form  a 
general  lustre  peculiar  to  the  painter.  To  this  treatment,  perhaps,  is  partly  to  be  attributed 
the  appearance  of  a  higher  character  in  Tizian's  flesh  tint,  and  because  it  contains  less  detail 
than  those  works  of  Rubens  produced  in  the  best  time  of  the  master. 

Of  that  flourishing  period  there  exist  two  of  those  works  of  Ruliens  which,  if  not  his 
best,  are  at  all  events  proportionately  the  most  celebrated — "The  Crucifixion,"  and  "The 
Descent  from  the  Cross,"  in  the  transept  of  the  cathedral  in  Antwerp. 

The  first  piece  represents  the  Redeemer  nailed  to  the  cross.  Numerous  executioners, 
soldiers,  and  other  myrmidons,  are  evidently  employing  all  their  might  in  the  endeavour  to 
raise  the  tottering  cross.  The  terrified,  wailing  women,  who  witness  the  scene,  form  a  most 
perfect  constrast  with  a  group  of  glittering  troopers.  The  great  mass  of  light  breaks  suddenly 
in,  lending  a  mournful  and  unearthly  magnificence  to  the  moment.  In  the  figures  engaged 
in  raising  the  cross  there  is  perhaps  too  great  a  development  of  power.  Many  of  the  attitudes 
appear  impracticable  and  forced. 


222  THE    GALLtRIES    OP    \IENNA. 

The  last  remark  cannot  be  applied  to  "The  Descent  from  the  Cross."  The  composition 
of  this  piece  is  truly  majestic;  the  participation  of  the  single  figures  is  kept  within  the 
necessary  limits;  the  expression  is  affecting,  and  at  the  same  time  nowhere  exaggerated  or 
inferior  to  the  intensity  of  the  moment.  Certain  it  is,  that  few  persons  who  have  seen  a  copy 
of  this  work  have  not,  at  the  first  glance,  been  struck  by  the  inimitable  death-like  appearance 
in  tlie  body  of  the  Redeemer;  likewise  by  the  touch  of  nature  exemplified  in  one  of  the 
assistants  who  holds  the  sheet  between  his  teeth:  thei'e  are  few  on  whose  memory  these 
have  not  made  an  indelible  impression.  Among  the  details  of  the  picture  is  the  raised  leg 
of  a  figure,  the  fore-shortening  of  which  is  wonderfully  fine. 

To  gain  a  more  exact  insight  into  Rubens  style  of  painting  tlian  could  be  done  by 
mere  general  descriptions,  we  will  enlarge  more  fully  uj)on  "Descent  from  the  Cross,"'  simply 
because  it  is  one  of  the  works  of  this  painter  which  may  be  considered  as  displaying  the 
most  perfect  expression  of  his  genius. 

The  fiction  so  often  repeated,  that  Rubens  borrowed  the  composition  of  this  piece 
from  an  Italian  engraving,  arises  merely  from  the  fact  of  the  position  of  the  Magdalene 
being  similar  to  that  in  the  plate  by  Peter  Passer  and  Hieronymus  Wirix.  At  all  events 
"The  Descent  from  the  Cross"  possesses  properties,  independently  of  the  drawing,  in  the 
treatment  of  light,  and,  especially,  of  colour,  which  present  Rubens  as  one  of  the  greatest 
masters  in  this  field  of  art. 

The  introduction  of  the  white  sheet  on  which  the  Redeemer  reposes  is  very 
daring.  A  painter  less  sure  of  the  power  of  his  colours  than  Rubens,  would  certainly  have 
been  apprehensive  lest  tiie  snow-white  linen  might  be  prejudicial  to  the  colours  of  the 
flesh.  A  painter  must  be  very  certain  of  his  tints  if  he  bring  pure  white  in  contact  with 
the  naked  figure.  In  this  case,  however,  one  great  advantage  is  gained  by  the  arrangement; 
it  is  very  attractive  for  the  eye.  The  principal  light  rests  on  the  ])ody  of  the  Redeemer 
and  the  white  cloth,  and  no  secondary  light  is  introduced  that  can  in  any  way  interfere 
with  the  power  of  the  first.  The  deepest  shadow  is  brought  in  sharp  contact  with  the 
highest  light,  and  great  value  is  given  to  the  latter  by  a  mass  of  strong  red  in  the  raiment 
of  St.  John,  and  by  the  blood  on  the  hand  and  arm  of  Christ;  while,  again,  in  contra- 
distinction, Mary  the  Mother  is  draped  in  deep  blue,  which  colour  is  repeated  in  the  dress 
of  the  figure  stretching  over  the  cross.  The  little  light  breaking  through  the  dull  sky, 
immediately  above  the  cross,  is  of  a  yellowish  hue,  like  the  drapery  of  Joseph  of  Arimathea, 
the  hair  of  Mary  Magdalene,  and  the  hair  and  garments  of  the  other  Magdalene.  The  figure 
descending  the  ladder  has  purple  and  brown.  A  few  small  spontaneous  lights  are  distributed 
at  some  distance  from  the  chief  mass  of  light,  on  the  head  and  shoidders  of  the  Magdalen, 
the  heads  of  the  two  Marys,  the  head  of  Joseph,  and  on  the  back  and  arm  of  the  figure 
liending  over  the  cross. 

This  is  a  perfect  flow  of  harmonious  tones,  governed  by  a  mighty  power  to  strengthen 
the  expression  and  purport  of  the  scene.  The  most  masterly  drawing  is  displayed,  specially 
in  the  body  of  the  Redeemer;  the  position,  thougii  in  the  highest  degree  difficult  to  portray, 
is  perfectly  natural.  The  drooping  head,  the  falling  in  of  the  body  on  one  side,  present  an 
insurpassable  appearance  of  the  dull  heaviness  of  death.  The  tender  heedfulness  with  which 
the  Holy  Corpse  is  raised  and  supported  is  affecting,  overcoming. 


THE    FOUR    QUARTERS    OF    TlIK    WOKI.n,    AFTKU    I>.    I'.    KI'liENS.  223 

As  in  this  master-piece,  Riihens  is  dctcrmiiu'd  in  tlie  arraiigeinont  of  liis  colour, 
in  wliicli  lies  a  jjrcat  portion  of  his  beauty,  hy  his  masses  of  light  and  shade.  Rubens 
usually  forms  his  light  of  delicate  tones  which  do  not  break  in  upon  its  breadth.  The  shadows 
consist  of  deep,  warm  colour,  and  he  often  aj)plics  a  brilliant  yellow,  or  a  rich  brown,  to 
objects  whidi  are  under  the  inHuence  of  reflected  light.  AVliile,  by  the  harmony  of  the 
composition  or  by  the  strongest  contrast,  he  obtains  the  firmest  hold  of  the  tints,  the  most 
pleasing  balance  of  colour,  there  seems  for  the  most  part  no  labour  whatever,  although  he 
works  with  the  most  subtile  artfidness;  so  that  the  imitation  of  his  style  may  be  considered 
as  exceedingly  difficult.  His  colouring  has  the  freshness,  the  bloom  of  a  nosegay,  the 
splendour  spread  around  by  the  setting  sun  on  a  warm  summer's  evening,  without 
approachiitg  the  gaudy  or  the  common-place — this  at  least  in  respect  to  colours. 

Kubens'  landscapes  are  comparatively  few,  but  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine 
pictures  more  gorgeous  than  they  are.  Take,  for  example,  •^Prairie  tie  Laeken,"  "Vue  de 
F/andres,"  "Going  to  Market."  The  delicate,  yellowish  light  streams  amongst  various  purple 
and  blue  tints  in  the  clouds,  and,  taking  a  deeper,  mellow  tone,  spreads  its  refulgence  over 
the  boughs  and  foliage,  till  it  reaches  the  fore-ground  in  one  mass  of  warm,  powerfid, 
transparent  colours. 

The  most  antagonistic  principles  of  what  may  be  represented,  are  united  in  Rubens. 
His  Lion  Hunts  with  the  greatest  development  of  power:  his  "Samson"  who,  deprived  of  liis 
hair  through  the  treacherous  Delila,  while  furiously  struggling  with  the  Philistines  is  over- 
powered by  them — and  the  portrait  of  the  artist  himself  who,  in  rustic  bliss,  is  sitting  with 
his  Isabelle  in  a  bower  of  honevsuckles:  the  dignity  in  the  picture  of  St.  Ambrose,  who 
repulses  the  emperor  Theodosius  from  the  gate  of  the  temple  (Belvedere  Gallery) — and  the 
exuberant  lust  exhibited  in  the  Bacchanalian  scenes,  often  reducing  humanity  to  the  level 
of  inferior  animals:  the  Court  of  Apes,  with  a  cat  caught  as  delinquent — and  the  magnificently 
conceived  allegories  of  "The  Blessings  of  Peace"  and  "The  Horrors  of  War;"  the  simple 
portrait,  and  the  wonderful  representation  of  classic  myth — in  short,  every  phase  in  real 
and  ideal  life  appears  in  the  works  of  Rubens. 

The  two  master-pieces  of  the  Antwerp  ^Vrtist  induced  Maria  de  Medici  to  call  the 
painter  to  Paris,  in  order  to  decorate  the  newly  built  Luxembourg  palace  with  representations 
taken  from  the  life  of  this  princess.  The  subject  matter  was  in  itself  invidious.  The  circum- 
stance of  being  confined  to  portraits,  seemed  to  act  as  an  impediment  to  the  soaring  mind 
of  the  painter.  Rubens  resorted  to  a  desperate  measure  in  order  to  perpetuate  the  historical 
events  in  the  life  of  that  Princess-Regent  of  France,  in  as  much  as  he  effected  the  illustrations 
through  the  means  of  mythology  and  allegory.  Maria  de  Medici  appears  surrounded  by  all 
the  Olympian  gods;  she  as  Juno,  marries  Henry,  as  Jupiter,  who,  in  another  representation 
of  that  time,  is  carried  off  by  the  real  Jupiter  and  received  amongst  the  gods,  &c.  Although 
in  some  of  these  twenty-one  tableaux  the  genius  of  the  painter  forces  its  way,  yet,  altogether, 
there  is  a  falling  off  of  that  intellectual  impulse,  that  desire  to  create,  which  Rubens  displays 
in  all  his  other  pieces.  In  spite  of  the  profusion  of  noble  figures,  fine  grouping,  and 
other  beauties,  this  undertaking  must  be  viewed  as  a  failure.  Some  of  these  pictures  even 
present  a  high  touch  of  the  comic  from  the  contrast  betwen  the  figures,  conceived  as 
portraits  in  the  correct  dresses   of  the  time,   and   the  very  scantily  attired  Olympians  with 


224  THE    GALLEUJKS    OF    VIENNA. 

their    attendants    of  inferior  figures,    flying,    swimming,    or    deporting    themselves    in   other 
unusual  ways. 

During  the  time  that  Rubens  was  in  I'aris  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  the  excentric 
Duke  of  Buckingliam,  whose  portrait  he  painted.  The  Duke  had  no  sooner  heard  of  some 
of  the  magnificent  pieces  in  Rubens'  cabinet  of  art,  than  he  persisted  in  theu-  being  brought 
over  to  Paris.  Some  of  these  works  of  art— the  antique  busts  of  Cicero,  Seneca,  Chrysippos, 
several  gems,  &c.,  created  a  great  sensation  amongst  all  the  Parisian  antiquaries,  giving 
occasion  for  learned  disquisitions  and  poems.  Buckingham,  with  the  laudable  pride  of  gaining 
these  treasures  for  his  native  country,  at  length  purchased  the  entire  collection  for  the,  at 
that  time  enormous,  sum  of  100,000  florins.  The  enviers  of  Rubens  took  advantage  of  this 
circumstance,  and  accused  him  of  avarice;  but  the  inference  to  be  drawn  is  that  Rubens 
obeyed  the  Iricndly  urgency  of  Buckingham  and  the  French  nobles  engaged  in  his  interest, 
at  the  head  of  whom  was  Anna  of  Austria.  In  vain  did  Rubens  declare  that  he  could  not 
do  without  his  collection,  that  he  could  not  replace  it  for  the  price  offered  him  by  the  Duke; 
he  at  once  began  again  to  collect,  and  soon,  but  at  an  immense  outlay,  brought  together  a 
choice  cabinet.  In  this,  however,  he  took  but  little  interest,  probably  because  the  new  collection 
did  not  recall  to  him  any  remembrances  of  Italy  and  Spain. 

After  his  return  to  his  native  country  Rubens  became  more  attached  to  the  Regent 
than  before.  Political  affairs  in  the  Netherlands  wore  a  very  gloomy  aspect,  and  the  Arch- 
duke Stadtholder  and  his  consort  were  of  opinion  that  a  more  fit  and  confidential  person 
than  Ruliens  could  not  be  found  to  point  out  to  the  King  of  Spain  the  necessity  of  thorough 
reform.  Rubens  repaired  for  the  second  time  to  Madrid;  he  was  received  with  great 
distinction,  and  painted  the  portraits  of  all  members  of  the  royal  family,  the  Duke  of  Olivarez, 
and  many  other  of  the  Spanish  nobility,  but,  owing  to  the  unsettled  state  of  the  finances 
which  had  gained  the  upperhand  in  Spain,  he  could  obtain  for  Belgium  nothing  but  promises 
which  continued  unfulfilled. 

From  the  court  of  Spain  the  Inflinta  recommended  Rubens  as  the  most  suitable 
negociator  between  Spain  and  England.  In  the  year  1609  Rubens  proceeded  to  London, 
to  the  court  of  Charles  I.  This  monarch,  an  enthusiastic  admii-er  of  the  arts,  entered  into 
an  intimate  connection  with  Rubens.  Through  Rubens  the  relations  between  the  two  courts 
took  a  less  hostile  cliaracter,  but,  owing  to  the  dreadful  confusion  of  the  political  interests, 
without  arriving  at  any  definite  result. 

In  the  mean  time,  in  accordance  with  the  ardent  wish  of  King  Charles,  Rubens 
painted  the  monarch  and  his  consort,  with  an  allegoric  reference  to  the  threatening  state  of 
the  times,  as  St.  George  rescuing  the  princess  from  the  dragon.  Rubens  afterwards  executed 
new  subjects  in  oil  for  the  ceiling  of  the  great  saloon  in  Wiiitehall  Palace,  from  whence  at  a 
later  period  Charles  I.  ascended  the  scaffold. 

This  was  a  work  in  honour  of  King  James  I.  The  centre  picture  represents  the 
Apotheosis.  Two  larger  side  pictures  represent  the  King  as  the  defender  of  peace,  while 
he  appoints  as  his  successor  his  unfortunate  son  Charles  I.  Four  other  allegorical  pictui-es 
represent  the  power  and  the  virtues  of  princes.  Colossal  friezes  with  genii  in  juvenile 
figures  encompass  the  picture.  The  genii  have,  as  accessories,  lions,  bears,  and  rams  attached 
to  waggons  laden  with  corn. 


TIIK    KOUR    CJUARTEKS    OF    TIIK     \\(»UI.I),    AITKK    1>.    I".    UUHKNS.  225 

TIic  I'l'ic/.cs  aro  porhaiis  tlu'.  hc.-t  parts  ol'  tlie  pei'tbnnaiici',  wliirli,  tal^cii  as  a  whole, 
is  a  t'ailure.  Probably  the  plastic  concrete  power  ol'  liubens  could  not  cope  witii  the 
colossal  proportions  of  this  picture.  The  genii  for  instance,  arc  not  less  than  nine  feet 
in  height.  Here,  the  endeavour  to  give  a  perfect  resemblance  of  life,  the  first  pro[)erty  of 
Rubens'  artistical  conception,  nuist  Iiave  been  cliecked.  Tliis  l\ind  of  design  is  cndin-alde 
only  when  free  from  all  earthly  material,  when  the  firmness  of  the  outlines  suffices  to  lead 
to  the  spiritual  world.  It  is  impossible  for  hundredweights  of  painted  flesh  to  be  suspended 
from  a  ceiling  witliout  oppressing  the  beholder.  These  ])icces,  having  no  inward  s])iriinal 
life,  were  executed  in  oil,  in  order  to  gain  a  deeper  and  more  ideal  impression — not  attainable 
in  paintings  al  fresco,  which  has  not  sucli  a  connnand  over  tlie  charms  of  natiu'al  tints.  But 
this  treatment,  it  would  seem,  docs  nothing  more  than  expose  a  total  absence  of  the  ideal. 

Ktdicns,  having  discharged  Ids  mission  to  Madrid,  returned  to  tlie  Netherlands,  where 
he  held  a  station  like  that  formerly  occujjied  by  the  Italian  painter-princes.  After  the  death 
of  Isabelle,  his  first  wife,  in  the  year  1628,  tlie  painter,  though  advanced  in  years,  gained 
the  hand  of  Helene  Fornian,  the  most  beautiful  girl  in  Antwerp;  she  was  sixteen  years  of 
age,  and  he  led  her  home  as  his  bride.  He  has  glorified  the  somewhat  robust  Xcthcrlandish 
charms  of  liis  second  wife  in  a  succession  of  pictures. 

A  splendid  circle  of  talented  scholars  gatliered  round  the  master,  who,  possessed  of 
a  princely  property  and  being  upon  intimate  terms  with  tiie  most  important  jjcrsons  of  the 
time,  gained  for  himself  immortal  merit  by  being  the  friend,  the  teacher,  and  the  jiatron  of 
artists.  In  his  later  days,  in  order  to  meet  the  deluge  of  commissions,  most  of  the  iiictures — 
for  whicli  he  provided  slight  sketches  only — were  finished  liy  his  scholars,  and  to  this 
circumstance  is  to  be  attributed  the  immense  number  of  his  works.  In  this  latter  period 
he  often  launched  forth  into  repugnant,  surfeiting  eomiiositions.  The  forms  whidi  hitherto, 
especially  in  the  female  figure,  frequently  displayed  a  gracious  outline,  became  swollen 
spongy,  ordinary;  moreover  Bacchanalian  representations  gained  the  ascendancy.  That  the 
master  was  able  to  accomodate  himself  and  to  produce  pictures  to  correspond  with  his  earlier 
greatness,  the  crucifixion  of  8t.  I'eter  in  the  church,  called  after  the  Apostle,  in  Cologne 
on  the  Rhine  is  a  sufficient  proof. 

The  Belvedere  Gallery  is  rich  in  pictures  by  this  master.  The  Rubens'  saloon  makes 
a  prodigious  impression.  Besides  many  of  his  best  pieces,  this  gallery  contains  a  series  of 
splendid  portraits  by  Rubens. 

His  picture  of  "The  four  Quarters  of  the  World"  we  have  every  reason  to  suppose 
was  painted  in  the  early  period  of  Rubens.  It  is  composed  quite  after  the  manner  of  his 
master  Verhaegt.  The  grouping  is  still  undefined,  and  many  parts  of  the  figures  betray  an 
imperfect  knowledge  of  forms.  To  compensate  for  this,  the  colouring,  though  little  worked 
up,  is  strikingly  effective  in  the  contrasting  arrangements. 

Rubens  has  symbolized  the  four  Quarters  of  the  World  in  the  gods  and  naiades  of 
the  four  great  rivers.  These  are  the  Danube,  the  Nile,  the  Maranon,  and  the  Ganges.  Parts 
are  thoroughly  characteristic,  as  in  the  African  group;  the  picture,  taken  as  a  whole,  is,  in 
its  very  nature,  cold.    The  figures  almost  exceed  the  size  of  life. 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  29 


226  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

In  "The  Alliance  between  the  Ocean  and  the  Earth,"  with  Neptune  and  Kybele,  and 
in  "The  Golden  and  the  Iron  Ages,"  Rubens  has  created  works  of  a  similar  class. 

Rubens  died,  sixty-three  years  old,  May  30th,   16-10.    At  his  funeral,  preceding  the 
procession,  a  golden  crown  was  carried  in  honour  of  the  Prince  of  Painters  of  his  time. 


THE  RIVER'S  BANK, 


N.    BERGHEM. 


This  is  probably  one  of  old  Berghem's  latest  pictures,  when  surfeited  with  a  long 
continued  course  of  painting  chimeras,  the  idea  occurred  to  him  to  confine  himself  to  the 
strictest  observation  of  nature.  In  this  picture,  his  accustomed  style  is  so  absolutely  difficult 
to  be  recognized,  that  we  can  be  induced  to  accept  its  genuineness  only  on  the  testimony  of 
trustworthy  witnesses.  The  execution  of  the  piece  is  so  rough  and  careless,  that  we  are  also 
reminded  of  Berghem's  latter  productions. 


THE  JOY  OF  SrRlNG, 


JOSEPH    PLATZER. 


A  conversation  after  the  manner  of  Netscher  and  Mieris.  A  more  than  middle-aged 
gentleman,  who  has  something  of  the  doctor  in  his  appearance,  makes  a  buxom,  wilful  looking 
damsel,  who  beats  and  rattles  the  tambourin,  sing,  while  he  accompanies  her  on  the  lute. 
The  figure  of  the  fawn,  with  the  look  of  curiositj'  which  it  exhibits,  is  not  placed  in  the 
back-ground  without  meaning  something — no  doubt  the  old  gentleman  once  more  feels  what 
Spring,  the  fragrance  Irom  the  blossoms,  and  the  song  of  the  nightingale,  denote.  The 
treatment  is  light  and  decided. 


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COURTSHIP, 


CORNELIUS    BEGA. 


As  we  havp  remarked  on  several  previous  occasions,  Bega  was  oltcn  fond  of  enduing 
iiis  figures  witli  a  monstrous  degree  of  ugliness,  solely  for.tlie  pui-posc  of  i'orming  a 
contrast  to  their  tender,  generous  sentiments.  In  this  respect  "The  Lovers'"  can  witli  difficulty 
he  surpassed.  The  almost  impossible  ugliness,  in  connection  with  their  soid-iircatiiing 
sentiment,  renders  this  picture  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  that  tliis  master  of  colour, 
light,  and  shadow  ever  painted. 


CATTLE    DRINKING, 


N.    BERGHEM. 


This  picture  may  be  reckoned  as  one  of  this  celebrated  pastoral  painter's  which 
portrays  genuine  nature  itself,  and  therefore  contains  an  unusually  powerful  effect.  Berghem, 
in  this  piece,  sacrifices  his  back-ground,  his  misty  perspective,  and  a  broad  part  of  the  fore- 
ground, in  order  to  attract  our  attention  to  his  delightful  figures.  This  single  picture  is  of 
more  value  than  many  other  of  Berghem's  pieces  altogether,  whicli  exliibit  but  a  superficial 
imitation  of  nature. 


29' 


228  THE    CALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 


PHIlllT  IV.  OF  SPAIN, 


VELASQUEZ. 


Sound  principle  is  tlie  prevailing  cliaracter  of  tlie  old  German  painters.  A  firm, 
sober  earnestness  jicrvadcs  their  pictures,  whether  they  incline  to  the  humorous,  or  even  when 
they  present  tlie  ideas  of  the  artist  in  unrestrained  broad  comedy.  Even  the  most  celebrated 
masters  of  foreign  nations  have  not  surpassed  tlie  old  (icrmans  in  their  spirited,  intellectual 
conceptions  of  the  outer  world.    The  German  fidelity  in  art  is  oft-times  striking. 

The  high  feeling  which  the  Italian  possesses  for  beauty  of  form  is  not  evinced  by 
the  (ierman  masters.  The  nature  of  their  climate  rarely  admits  the  exposiu'e  of  the  figure; 
a  raw  air  compels  the  inhabitant  of  the  north  countries  to  keep  his  shoulders,  arms,  and  lower 
extremities  well  wrapped  up,  while  in  the  South  the  eye  of  the  artist  is  accustomed  to  meet 
uncovered  limbs  at  every  turn.  The  dweller  in  the  South  is  accustomed  to  the  vicissitudes 
of  a  buoyant  and  fragrant  atmosphere,  he  lives  In  more  immediate  intercourse  with  nature 
than  his  bretiu'cn  of  the  North,  who,  in  their  houses  and  their  attire,  are  forced  to  protect 
their  persons  from  the  inclemency  of  the  wind  and  the  weather.  Life  is  harder  in  the  North 
than  in  tlie  Soutli,  wlicre  a  thousand  things,  essential  to  comfort  in  the  former,  are  unknown. 

This  happy  freedom  of  untroubled  existence,  in  a  climate  vigorous  and  mild  enough 
to  bring  forth  the  unchecked  bloom  of  life  speaks  in  all  southern  works  of  art.  He  who 
would  acquaint  himself  with  this  inartificial  freedom  must  not  remain  north  of  the  Alps. 
Were  the  numerous  great  monuments  of  art  in  Italy  to  vanish  at  one  stroke,  still  this 
peninsula,  Greece,  and  her  Archipelago,  would  continue  to  be  the  clime  where  life  appears 
in  its  most  finished  and  artistic  form. 

If  we  take  art  in  (iermany  from  the  beginning,  and  follow  its  progress  through  its 
connection  with  the  stunted  remains  of  the  plastic,  which  emanated  from  the  South,  we  find 
it  not  purely  accidental  tbat  it  rests  upon  portraits.  Although,  in  the  course  of  centuries,  the 
climate  of  Germany  has  gradually  attained  a  milder  temperature,  to  this  day  we  see  little 
more  than  the  faces,  the  dress,  and  the  hands  of  mankind.  From  the  want  of  exposure  to 
air  and  light,  the  limbs  of  the  Northlander  appear  in  great  measure  to  have  lost  their 
aptitude  for  serving  as  means  for  the  expression  of  thought  and  sentiment.  The  German, 
tiiat  is,  the  German  of  the  North,  knows  nothing  of  gesticulation — he  would  consider  it  as 
singular,  inappropriate,  and  ridiculous.  This  inexhaustible  change  of  attitude,  this  gesture 
which  accomjianics  every  variety  of  idea,  observable  in  the  Italians,  could  only  be 
performed  by  the  German  with  the  greatest  exertion — if  at  all.  This  involuntary  profusion 
of  impressive  gesticulation,  indigenous  to  the  Italian,  we  should  look  upon  as  something  like 
torture.  It  would,  however,  be  necessary  to  bind  the  arms  and  legs  of  the  Italian  to  bring 
him  Ijy  degrees  to  our  notions  of  suiting  the  action  to  the  word.  We  speak — the  Italian 
declaims;  a  ])antomimical  action  of  the  features  is  even  unusual  with  us-  -in  Italy  they  not 


l^elii^(f;ij-z-  /:\n.X 


:^  ,^^/vv/^  /T^'^  /^>^9^^By(B^^Y^'^'^^^^ 


i'Ull.ll'P    IV.    (IK    SPAIN.    AITKU    VKLASQUEZ.  229 

only  spejilv  with  tlic  tongue,  tlic  eyes,  and  the  features,  but  tliey  al)solutcly  call  in  the  aid 
of  arms,  fingers,  and  legs.  Every  word  is  illustrated  by  a  corresponding  action,  which  is 
frequently  more  striking  than  all  the  words  they  are  able  to  put  together. 

This  thoroughly  ingenious  action,  this  parity  in  the  a]ipoarancc  of  the  interior  and 
extei'ior  man,  may  be  seen  even  in  the  worst  periods  of  Italian  works  of  art.  Tlie  German 
must  prepare  himself  for  this  important  point  before  he  can  render  it  in  an  artistical  manner. 
With  him  art,  according  to  the  increased  exertion,  becomes  of  a  two-fold  kind. 

But,  instead  of  outward  appearance,  the  Germans  perfectly  understood  the  art  of 
making  the  mental  available.  In  the  portrayal  of  (juict,  deep  feeling  the  old  German  masters 
have  scarcely  been  C(|ualed.  To  this  they  united  a  peculiar  element — the  representation  of 
that  which  existed  only  in  the  power  of  imagination.  This  world  of  fantasy  has  been,  as 
it  were,  a  natural  ecpiivalent  for  the  confined  sphere  of  the  merely  external  ((ualities — the 
preferable  inheritance  of  the  German  artists.  They  produced  in  their  pictures,  fmui  this  source, 
every  reflected  image  of  their  mind,  and  they  thus  appear  to  us  as  if  they  w^ere  poetical 
revelations.  Here  is  Albert  Diircr  pre-eminent.  A  train  of  fancifid  ideas,  like  that  of  the 
old  German  painters,  has  never  been  brought  to  light  by  any  of  the  great  Italian  master.s, 
if  perhaps  we  except  Leonardo  da  Vinci. 

Italian  art  is  derived  from  sculpture,  Avhere  action  is  refined  to  ideal  repose.  When 
the  Italians  were  on  the  decline,  they  returned  again  to  their  antique  source  in  order  to  gain 
strength  to  bring  themselves  again  in  the  ascendant.  A\'hen  the  Germans,  bv  the  death  of 
Diirer,  lost  their  leading  clue  in  the  labyi-inth  of  art  which  that  master  had  discovered  to 
them,  they  had  recourse  to  portraits  as  the  basis  of  tlieir  representations.  In  this  department 
of  art  the  Germans  may  enter  the  lists  with  the  Italians. 

The  two  nations,  however,  differ  materially.  The  old  German  painters,  as  a  general 
rule,  did  not  strive  to  introduce  into  their  portraits  anything  beyond  a  likeness.  They  adhered 
strictly  to  nature:  their  chief  point  was  the  closest  imitation  of  the  features,  together  with 
other  minuti:e  presented  to  their  view.  By  this  means  they  attained  an  extraordinary  stability 
in  the  delineation  of  corresponding  forms,  too  frequently,  however,  they  stri]iped  the  original 
of  the  intellectual  appearance  whicii  should  light  up  the  countenance. 

Besides  this,  the  immediate  successors  of  Diirer  were  not  able  to  imbue  their  portraits 
with  a  decided  artistic  effect.  The  pictures  stand  before  us,  and  seem  to  be  lit  up  by  the 
same  light  of  day  as  that  which  surrounds  us.  The  portrait  figures,  since  the  pictures  have 
no  peculiar  light  of  their  own,  are  thus  exposed  to  bear  comparison  with  natural  object.s, 
which,  as  a  matter  of  course,  under  such  circumstances  seriotisly  tends  to  their  prejudice. 
The  pictures,  in  spite  of  their  frequent  verv  lively  colouring  and  their  sharply  drawn  forms, 
are  void  of  animation,  ineffective,  and  from  the  want  of  aerial  perspective  to  relieve  them, 
the  countenances  shew  no  appearance  of  roundness,  Init  look  more  as  if  they  had  been  pasted 
upon  the  canvas. 

Master  Holbein  only,  the  German  painter  par  e.rrellencc,  displays,  in  his  latter 
portraits,  an  independent  arrangement  of  light  wiiich  iuqiarts  to  his  figures  an  indisputable 
life-like  effect;  as  an  instance,  we  mention  "The  Fool  of  Henry  VIII.  of  England,  grinning 
through  an  iron  railintr." 


230  THE    GALLERIES    OK    VIENNA. 

The  thought  of  giving  their  portraits  one  single  touch  of  the  ideal  never  entered  the 
heads  of  Diirer,  Holbein,  Cranach,  Amberger,  &c.  The  Italians  can  scarcely  shew  a  portrait 
in  which  the  ideal  does  not  predominate.  Their  chief  object  is  to  produce  the  given  forms 
of  the  original,  and  harmonize  them  so  as  to  call  the  antique  to  our  minds.  Leonardo  da 
Vinci's  female  portraits  rarely  quite  conceal  the  type  which  this  master  conceived  to  be  the 
essential  attribute  of  beauty;  the  long  drawn  oval  face,  the  extravagantly  small  mouth,  and 
the  length  of  the  eye.  Tizian,  the  first  portrait  painter  of  Italy,  suppressed  all  inessential 
traits  which  were  not  homogeneous  with  the  general  form,  and  softened  down  the  most 
prominent  properties  of  the  principle  forms,  in  order  to  produce  an  artificial  harmony.  Fi'om 
this  cause,  more  particularly  with  regard  to  his  female  portraits — to  which  belong  most  of  his 
goddesses,  nymphs,  and  saints — monotony  and  want  of  individuality  ensues,  and  he  depends 
upon  the  brilliancy  of  his  colouring  to  attain  a  great  eifect. 

The  Spaniards  stand  between  the  Germans  and  the  Italians.  They,  like  the  latter, 
enjoy  the  advantage  of  a  happy  climate;  their  capability  of  representation  is  equal  to  that 
of  the  Italians;  on  the  other  hand  their  feelings  are  less  fugitive,  though  the  glow  of  Italian 
emotion  is  equal  to  the  Spanish,  still  the  son  of  the  Iberian  peninsula  may  lay  claim  to  a 
depth  of  feeling  which  gives  weight  and  importance  to  the  sentiment.  The  characteristic  of 
the  Spaniard  is  profoimd  earnestness;  that  of  the  Italians  a  levity,  which  nothing  can  disturb. 

The  national  character  of  the  Spaniard  is  strikingly  exhibited  in  his  work  of  art. 
The  solidity  of  the  Cierman  a})pears  in  the  Spaniard,  united  with  a  capability  of  emotion 
which  enables  him  to  breathe  glowing  life  into  materials  even  of  an  opposite  nature. 

This  life,  with  its  characteristic  indications,  is  what  the  Spanish  painters  stride  to  seize 
upon;  it  is  observable  alike  in  portraits  and  in  the  scenes  of  fantastical  horrors  which  lead 
them  into  the  regions  of  martys  and  saints.  The  Spaniards  conscientiously  and  earnestly 
adhere  to  natural  appearance;  their  powerful  imagination,  however,  exalts  these  natural 
figures  to  1)0  the  bearers  of  such  lofty  ideas,  and  to  express  such  intense  feelings,  that  their 
unassuming  origin  becomes  entirely  lost  sight  of. 

One  of  the  brightest  sides  of  Spanish  art  is  the  portrait.  We  do  not  allude  to  its 
truth  only,  which  is  likewise  to  be  found  in  similar  German  works,  and  in  the  Italian 
idealized  form;  but  the  Spaniard  catches  the  character,  the  mind  of  the  person  he  paints, 
and  this  feeling  is  the  great  triumph  in  the  likenesses  by  the  hand  of  the  Spanish  painter. 

The  most  genial  portrait  painter  of  Spain  is  Master  Velasquez  de  Silva,  notwith- 
standing the  productions  of  his  scholar  Estabau  JNlurillo.  The  vie^v■  taken  by  this  extraordinary 
artist  was,  that  every  type  of  natural  beauty  can  give  a  significant  expression.  While  carefully 
endeavouring  to  copy  the  forms  and  colours  of  natural  subjects,  and  by  entering  into  (he 
details,  he  sought  to  secure  the  predominant  character,  whether  this  lay  in  the  mere  form,  or 
whether  it  was  dependent  on  any  peculiar  appearance. 

Struck  by  the  infinite  changes  in  the  appearance  even  of  the  most  common  objects, 
Velasquez  determined  to  keep  to  his  point,  and  not  to  flinch  from  it  till  he  should  fully 
establish  it.  To  accomplish  this  he  chose  the  human  figure,  and  took  a  fine  peasant  boy 
into  his  service,  who  had  nothing  else  to  do  than  to  place  himself — in  all  possible  positions, 
it   is   true — before  Velasquez,   as   a   model   for  his   master   to  paint   from.     From   this  one 


riiuji'i'  jv.  OK  si'AiN,  .u'TKU  vi:i,A.s(^ii:z.  231 

.spuciiiicii   of  iiiMii   the  voiiiii;'  painter,    \vlio   was  not  iniicli  (ildcr  tlian  this  perpetual  nioiiol, 
titialieil  all  maiikiiul. 

^'elas(lllez  was  astonished  at  tlie  constant  changes  he  perceived,  notwithstanding;  this 
pattern  of  a  man  remained  the  same.  But  he  was  not  to  be  deterred  from  observing  and 
copying  the  slightest  trace  of  the  varied  emotions  of  the  mind,  perceptible  in  his  model.  At 
length  he  was  able  to  render  visible  these  varied  sensations. 

Tiiere  are  some  Spanish  sonnets  of  the  time  of  Velasquez,  in  wliicii  these  represen- 
tations are  mentioned  as  something  wonderful,  or  they  served  as  the  chief  point  in  the  poem. 
"The  man",  in  allusion  to  Vale.^quez's  model,  sajs  the  song,  "by  the  art  of  the  master  is 
represented  with  a  countenance  which — what  wonder — changes  a  hundred  times,  and  yet 
remains  exactly  the  same.  But  thy  wonder,  O  C'hloe,  is  much  greater,  for  thou  changest  a 
hundred  times — and  to  my  dishonour — thine  hearts  thoughts,  at  the  same  time  smilest  thou 
upon  me  with  the  same  treacherous  grace." 

The  original  way  in  wliich  Velasquez  sought  to  make  himself  master  of  physiognomical 
expression,  not  only  soon  made  the  young  artist  known  in  an  extensive  circle,  Init  rapidly 
gave  liim  a  decided  atUantage  over  his  now  long  anonymous  rivals.  lie  could  jiaint  a  portrait 
from  memory  which  strikingly  reflected  the  spirit  and  the  character  of  the  original.  Forms, 
which  coidd  be  given  by  mere  lines —  the  profile  of  the  face,  for  examjile — Velasquez  could 
draw  with  the  greatest  accuracy  with  his  eyes  shut.  Altiiough  this  i)erformance  may  not  be 
so  very  difficult  to  accomplish,  still,  at  that  time,  it  was  a  novelty,  and  tended  not  a  little  to 
raise  the  reputation  of  the  painter. 

Having,  as  he  considered,  made  himself  master  in  the  portrayal  of  the  human 
countenance  and  frame,  he  directed  his  attention  to  inanimate  nature.  In  this  he  specially 
aimed  at  the  secret  of  colouring  which  he  had  in  vain  endeavoured  to  discover  while  studying 
Giorgine  and  Tizian.  These  masters  possessed  the  art  of  amalgamating  their  colours  to  such 
an  extent,  more  particidarly  in  the  brilliant  tints  of  the  flesh,  that  it  is  difficult,  or  impossible, 
to  prove  what  proportion  the  difterent  colours  bear  to  each  other  in  producing  these  peculiar 
tints,  which  appear  to  melt  into  each  other  by  means  of  evaporation  and  washing  off",  without 
then-  brilliancy  having  suffered  in  the  least. 

.Supported  by  a  searching  and  fortunate  eye,  Velasquez  discovered  in  nature  the  two 
great  principles  of  harmony  and  contrast  of  colour.  The  open  secret  of  the  close  affinity 
of  colours  presented  itself  to  the  investigator,  who  very  .soon  learnt  to  pursue  the  gradation 
of  tints  in  nature  with  the  greatest  certainty. 

Velasquez  began  to  paint  his  pictures  after  nature  without  settled  forms,  with  relation 
only  to  the  masses  of  different  colours,  .ind  in  this  manner  to  borrow  nature  as  his  palette. 
He  learnt  to  comprehend  the  tints  of  nature  in  their  purity,  and  to  put  them  together. 
Velasquez  displayed  every  degree  of  colour  with  the  greatest  force,  and  attained  the  harmony 
of  these  brilliant  tints  Ijy  placing  those  colours  only  side  by  side  which  appear  in  nature. 
He  who  can  command  such  a  harmony  of  colouring,  need  not  be  perplexed  on  account  of 
the  striking  interruption  of  it  by  the  introduction  of  sharp  contrasting  tints.  This  decided 
opposition  of  light,  and  laying  on  of  colour,  as  carried  out  by  Velasquez,  retains  its  maiden 
bloom  to  this  day,  and  is  not  one  of  the  least  of  this  master's  excellencies.    If  the  pictures 


232  TIJI^    GALLEIilES    OF    VIENNA, 

|jy  VelascjiK'z  Iiuvc  only  been  in  good  lianils,  tlicy  outshine  most  of  those  by  the  IlaHan 
masters,  whose  misfortune  so  often  was  that,  tlie  eoK)urs,  artificially  [ti-epared,  [lerished  in 
the  course  of  time,  owing  to  their  chemical  combination,  and  the  original  glow  faded  into  a 
heavy,  cold  tint. 

For  his  lights,  Velasquez  worked  after  the  style  of  the  Netherlanders.  From  them  he 
learnt  the  most  exact  imitation  of  the  natural  effect  of  light,  hut  soon  found  that  he  was 
running  into  danger,  in  spite  of  the  beauties  of  these  miniature  painters,  of  adoi)ting  their 
inanimate  matter-of-fact  character.  He  turned  from  this  system  of  detail,  and  directed  his 
attention  again  to  the  firm  adherence  to  the  great  characteristic  essence. 

Velasquez,  therefore,  seems  to  be  a  very  independent  artist,  who,  obeying  the  impulse 
of  his  genius,  devoted  himself  solely  to  natural  appearances.  The  Spaniard  was  fortunate 
enough  in  his  daily  avocations  to  find  himself  surrounded  by  elegant  forms,  consequently, 
many  of  his  earlier  figures  are  so  finely  proportioned,  that  they  might  be  supposed  to  have 
been  taken  from  the  antique.  These,  however,  are  exceptions.  Velasquez  possessed  no  ideal 
flight  of  intuitive  perception,  which  enables  the  artist  to  proceed  beyond  the  casualties  of 
nature  and,  in  accordance  with  the  essentials  of  his  figures,  to  assume  a  sublime  idea. 

Wlicrc  he  wishes  this  idea  to  prevail  he  introduces  a  mass  of  natural  objects  which — 
though  under  other  circumstances  they  might  perhaps  excite  our  admiration— disturbs 
the  beholder  and  i-educes  the  piece  to  plain  reality.  On  the  pictures  of  saints,  painted 
previously  to  his  sojourn  in  Italy,  Velasquez  often  gives  us  the  most  common  Spanish  street 
scenes,  and  urges  beyond  all  limit  of  reality  the  impassioned-devotional,  the  heart-felt,  in  a 
wonderful  manner.  The  inward  feeling  is  idealized  while  tlie  exterior  remains  unchanged  as 
nature  formed  it. 

An  early  piece  of  this  painter's  which  is  characterized  by  its  sharp,  occasionally 
violent  contrasts  of  light  and  shade,  called  "The  Water-carrier,"  is  in  the  museum  of  Madrid. 
The  pictures(jue  figure  of  an  old  man  clothed  in  rags,  is  giving  a  boy  to  drink.  This  picture 
is  remarkably  vigorous  and  displays  the  strongest  side  of  the  Master  Diego.  "The  two 
Spinners,"  in  the  same  gallery,  offers  an  example  of  the  very  detail  of  harmony  of  colour. 
An  exhalation  of  the  ideal,  a  melting  poetry,  tints  like  the  tones  of  an  ^-Eolean  harp — breathe 
from  the  whole  picture.  Mengs,  whose  artistic  feeling  evidently  inclined  to  this  side,  consicffi-s 
this  picture  as  next  to  a  miracle,  "that  appears  to  have  been  produced  by  the  mere  will  of 
the  master."  Generally  speaking,  the  pictures  of  saints  by  Velasquez  are  unequal  to  thesubject. 
One  of  the  best,  of  the  time  before  mentioned,  is  that  of  St.  John  writing  the  Apocalypse. 
In  this  piece  the  forte  of  the  master,  the  strong  portrait-like  expression,  is  brought  into  play. 

Through  his  friendly  connection  with  the  wealthy  connoisseur  Pachaco,  whose  "'Arte 
Je  la  jyiniura"  still  maintains  its  worth,  Velasquez,  now  about  twenty-two  years  of  age,  was 
raised  to  a  higher  degree.  Pacheco's  house  was  the  resort  of  the  admirers  of  art,  both  ladies 
and  gentlemen,  in  Seville.  I  lis  knowledge  expanded,  and  he  received  a  presage  of  the  height 
which  in  his  career  remained  for  him  to  climb.  Pacheco,  who  felt  that  the  young  man  was 
capable  of  reaching  the  highest  point,  gave  him  his  daughter.  Donna  Juanna,  in  marriage. 

In  order  to  attain  a  great  style,  Velasquez  copied  the  Italian  and  the  Flemish  master- 
pieces, in  which  at  that  time  Seville  was  rich.    However,  he  soon  felt  convinced  that  by  this 


PHILIPP    IV.    OK    Sl'AlN.  233 

means  he  slioiild  only  attain  tu  one  side  of  the  art,    and  Veias(jucz  rejiaircd  to  Mailrid  to 
continue  his  studies  of  the  treasures  in  the  royal  city. 

In  Madrid  lie  met  wltli  decided  success  in  portrait  painting.  He  painted  his  patron 
tlic  C';inon  Don  Juan  de  Von-'-cca,  a  picture  of  such  great  merit  that  the  then  all  powerful 
minister,  tlic  Duke  of  Olivarez,  felt  induced  to  commend  it  to  King  Philipp  IV. 

The  monarcli  was  so  enchanted  with  the  work  that  he  invited  the  painter  to  take  up 
his  residence  in  the  royal  palace.  Velasquez  entered  the  service  of  the  court  at  a  regular 
salary,  and  the  first  portrait  he  painted  was  that  of  the  Cardinal-Infant  Fernando.  Afterwards 
he  executed  the  portrait  of  the  King.  His  Majesty  was  represented  life  size,  riding  a  heautiiul 
black  horse.  This  likeness  so  far  surpassed  every  thing  of  the  kind,  that  the  King  allowed 
it  to  be  publicly  exhibited.  He  received  many  marks  of  respect  both  in  prose  and  in  \erse. 
The  King  rewarded  him  with  princely  generosity,  and  commanded — like  the  son  of  Philipp 
of  Macedon  who  would  be  painted  only  by  Apelles— that  Diego  Velasquez  alone  should 
have  the  right  to  paint  him. 

His  superiority  over  the  other  court  painters,  amongst  whom  were  the  clever  artists 
Narducho,  Nardi,  and  Capes,  is  strongly  evidenced  in  the  competition  for  the  design  of  a 
monument  to  the  memory  of  King  Philipp  HI.  Strangely  enough,  this  monument  was  at 
the  same  time  intended  to  illustrate  the  expulsion  of  the  Moors  from  Spain.  Velasquez 
executed  a  design  in  "heroic  genre"  and,  considering  his  great  talent  in  this  province  of  art, 
it  is  singular  that  the  painter  did  not  keep  to  it,  but  that  at  a  later  period  he  should  as  it 
w'ere  by  chance  enter  upon  this  field. 

His  meeting  with  Peter  Paul  Rubens,  who  appeared  in  Madrid  in  lb2S,  had  con- 
siderable influence  over  his  future  career.  The  great  Netherlander  conceived  a  warm  affection 
for  Velasquez,  and  drew  him  during  a  nine  month's  intercourse  into  the  sphere  of  his  great 
perceptions.  "No  remedy  but  Italy!'"  This  was  the  repeated  energetic  exjiression  of  Rubens: 
for  he  was  convinced  that  Velasquez,  unless  he  studied  carefully  the  great  Italian  masters 
whose  gi-ound-work  was  the  antique,  would  never  acquire  an  elevated  style,  or  rather  that 
he  would  be  lost  from  his  incontrolable  turn  for  truth  to  nature. 

Philipp  IV.  reluctantly  consented  to  the  departure  of  his  favorite  painter.  As,  however, 
nothing  could  shake  the  determination  of  Diego,  the  King  granted  him  a  yearly  sum  of 
more  than  eight  hundred  ducats  ujion  the  exjiress  condition  that  he  should  not  be  absent 
longer  than  two  years. 

Velasquez  immediately  journeyed  to  Venice,  there  to  study  Giorgione,  Tizian,  and  Paul 
Veronese,  the  favorites  of  Rubens.  Here,  however,  the  painter  seems  to  have  been  chiefly 
attracted  by  the  versatile,  ungovernable  Tintoretto,  who  notwithstanding  all  his  imitation  of 
Michel  Angelo's  moving  principles,  could  not  tear  himself  from  the  coarse  naturalistic  element. 
In  Rome,  Velasquez  had  the  honour  of  lodging  with  Pope  Urban  VIII.  in  the  Vatican.  Nearly 
a  year  passed  in  studies  from  Buonaroti's  "Last  Judgment",  in  copying  the  prophets  and 
sibyls  contained  in  that  picture,  and  in  making  studies  from  Raphael's  fresco  esin  the  Vatican. 
He  afterwards  proceeded  to  Naples,  where  Spagnoletto  was  in  the  height  of  his  fame. 

Like  Rubens  and  Spagnoletto,  Velasquez,  even  after  having  studied  the  antique  and 
the  great  painters,   retained  his  peculiarities.     He   had,   it  is   true,  found  the  way  into  the 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  ;j() 


234  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

ideal  world  of  Kaphael,  but  he  neither  felt  called  upon,  nor  inclined  to  follow  it.  Velasquez 
remained  as  he  was  before  he  set  out  from  Barcelona — the  painter  of  the  truth  of  nature, 
which  now  appeared  in  an  ennobled  form.  The  painter  had  improved  in  his  colouring  more 
than  in  anjthing  else. 

Jlis  first  works  were  the  portraits  of  the  King  and  the  Infante  Don  Baltasare.  It 
would  seem  that  Philipp  IV.  never  grew  weary  of  being  painted  by  Velasquez.  Amongst 
his  portraits  of  the  male  and  female  members  of  tlie  royal  family  many  are  on  horseback. 

The  finest  work  of  this  class  executed  by  Velasquez  is  indisputably  the  portrait  of  the 
Duke  of  Olivarez:  the  Duke  is  mounted  on  a  magnificent  Andalusian  horse,  he  wears  a  suit 
of  armour  richly  inlaid  with  gold,  and  carries  the  truncheon  without  which,  at  that  time,  no 
hero  was  considered  to  be  perfect.  The  moment  chosen,  is  that  when  the  Duke  plunges  into 
the  tiu'moil  of  the  battle  which  appears  in  the  back-ground.  This  ])icture  is  conceived  quite 
in  the  spirit  of  Ilubens,  and  is  perhaps  the  most  distinguished  for  its  grandeur  of  action  that 
Velasquez  produced. 

This  painter  knew  how  to  introduce  artist's  tricks  into  his  [)ortraits,  which  delighted 
the  Spanish  court  more  than  the  picture  itself  as  a  work  of  art.  He  sometimes  placed  his 
figures  near  a  mirror  so  that  they  might  be  viewed  from  all  sides,  &c.  In  his  fullest,  if  not 
his  very  finest  portrait-picture,  "The  Family,"  re|)resenting  the  Infanta  Donna  Margarefa 
with  the  ladies  of  the  court  and  oddly  accoutred  dwarfs,  Velasquez  has  introduced  himself 
standing  behind  the  easel,  while  in  a  large  mirror  are  reflected  the  portraits  of  the  King  and 
the  Queen,  upon  which  the  artist  is  at  work.  Philipp  IV.  did  not  rest  satisfied  with  calling 
this  picture  "The  miraculous  work"  and  with  declaring  it  the  best  that  Velasquez  had 
painted,  but  to  shew  his  appreciation  of  it — and  certainly  it  has  its  merits,  for  the  perspective 
is  said  to  be  treated  in  a  masterly  manner — he  conferred  a  patent  of  nobility  upon  the  painter. 

The  pictures  by  this  master  are  looked  upon  as  great  ornaments  to  galleries  of  the 
highest  rank.  In  the  Belvedere  (iallery  there  is  an  exquisite  picture  of  Philipp  IV.;  it  is  a 
life  size,  three  quarter  figure;  this  collection  likewise  contains  a  ])ortrait  of  a  little  infanta, 
and  one  of  the  young  Infant  Don  Baltasare  Carlos.  A  half  length  figure  of  a  laughing 
rustic,  life  size,  is  also  admirable.  The  most  important  picture,  and  one  which  gives  the  best 
idea  of  this  master's  powers,  is  that  which  represents  the  artist  himself  and  his  family. 

AVhen  we  consider  the  j)roductions  of  Velasquez,  we  cannot  help  regretting  that  the 
great  talents  of  the  painter  were  almost  wholly  absorlicd  in  portrait  painting  only.  Velasquez 
was  remarkably  fitted  for  the  pure  genre,  perhaps  still  more  for  the  historic  genre.  His 
"Spinners"  and  "The  Water  Carrier"— the  latter  was  engraved  by  Amettler  for  the  Madrid 
Collevnon  de  las  estampas — outweigh  a  whole  series  of  his  portraits,  however  varied  and  often 
refined  as  the  latter  may  appear.  For  the  historial  genre  the  portrait  of  the  Duke  of  Olivai-ez 
may  speak  for  itself. 

In  the  strictly  historical,  Velasquez  is  insufficient,  as  the  picture  of  "The  Delivery 
of  Breda"'  serves  to  prove.  Here  arc  some  portrait  figures,  splendidly  finished  we  must 
admit,  but,  taken  altogether,  it  is  conventional,  there  is  no  warmth  in  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
"The  wild  Boar  Hunt"  in  the  English  National  Gallery,  is  full  of  force  and  animation.  In 
this  piece.  King  Philipp,  his  eldest  infante,  Olivarez,  and  other  high  personages  are  introduced. 


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THE  KMHASSY,  AFTEU  CAHI,  MAVEU.  235 

There  is   uiidtlier   ;il8<)   in   the  same  I'ljlleetiuii,  "A    Biiil-h;j,iil,'  hut   which   in   iiiuuy  jiaits  is 
very  slightly  treated. 

Velasquez  died  in  Madrid,  August  7tii,  1660. 


T  11  E     E  M  B  A  S  S  Y, 

AFTER 

GAEL     MAYER 


This  artist  is  gifted  witli  acute  powers  of"  observation,  and  is  very  happy  in  liis 
delineations  of  scenes  characteristic  of  popular  life.  We  have  before  us  one  of  this  class 
of  pictures:  it  represents  the  village  embassy  heavily  laden  with  all  kinds  of  provisions, 
which  they  dutifully  bring  to  the  worthy  abbot.  There  are  some  humorous  traits  in  the  piece 
which  give  the  whole  a  cheerful,  genial  character.  The  composition  is  very  natural,  the  drawing 
excellent,  and  the  colouring  lively  and  correct.  Mayer  belongs  to  the  best  of  the  modern 
artists  of  Austria;  he  likewise  paints  historical  pieces  with  equal  excellence.  He  was  born 
in  Vienna  in  ISIO. 


WILD  BOAR  A'lTACKEl)  BY  WOLVES, 


E  U  T  H  A  R  T. 


This  is  indisputably  one  of  the  most  effective  productions  of  the  celebrated  animal 
painter.  Far  remote  from  man  is  the  savage,  sanguinary  scene  in  the  rugged  wilderness, 
where  the  wild  boar  in  vain  opposes  his  strength,  and  endeavours  to  escape  from  his 
enemies,  ravenous  with  hunger.  Although,  like  a  true  warrior,  the  animal,  whose  tusks 
have  done  him  good  service,  falls  not  unrevenged,  still,  he  is  conquered;  and  in  the  next 
moment  the  reeking  jaws  of  the  conquerors  are  tearing  at  the  flesh  of  their  victim — the 
monotonous  roaring  of  the  torrent  accompanies  the  repast.  Friend  Keynard  is  deliciously 
introduced  as  having  slunk  in,  awaiting  his  share,  so  soon  as  the  wolves  shall  have  ended 
their  meal. 


30' 


236  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


THE  YIRGIN,  JESUS,  AND  ST.  JOHN, 


RAPHAEL    SANZIO. 


Clirlstian  art  required  full  ten  centuries  before  it  became  raised  to  the  freedom  in 
which  we  see  it  shedding  its  lustre  thi'ough  the  works  of  Raphael  and  his  great  cotemporaries. 
It  was  an  infinitely  long  jjath  which  art  had  to  pursue  before  it  even  arrived  at  the  point 
which  we  are  accustomed  to  designate  as  the  beginning  of  a  free  action,  of  a  greater 
masteiy  over  the  material,  and  in  the  appearance  of  the  individual  ideas  of  artists.  On  this 
point  we  bring  forward  Cimabue.  To  those  who  have  not  studied  the  history  of  art,  his 
name  may  sound  almost  mythical,  serving  only  to  denote  the  idea  of  rising  art.  How 
the  works  of  the  so-called  "P'ather  of  the  modern  art  of  painting"  stand  in  relation  to  this 
idea,  what  the  artist  did  in  order  to  obtain  this  venerable  appellation,  remains  unknown  and 
uncanvasscd. 

The  ideas  as  represented  by  heathen  art,  were  looked  upon  as  idolatrous,  and  as  an 
abomination  by  tlie  early  Christians.  It  is  not  the  fireeks,  but  the  Romans  whose  works 
of  art  came  nearest  to  the  early  Christians.  It  was  in  Rome,  in  the  metropolis  of  that  empire 
which  once  extended  over  the  greater  part  of  the  world,  where  the  new  culture  stood  directly 
opposed  to  the  full  power  of  heathenism,  to  an  abandoned  priestcraft,  to  the  now  hardly 
recoo-nizable  remains  of  an  originally  significant  philosophby,  and  to  a  state  of  moral 
dissolution  which  was  mainly  owing  to  the  depths  of  moral  pollution  into  which  the  religious 
ideas  had  sunk. 

The  noblility  of  perception  in  the  world  of  man  and  of  nature  which  graced  the 
blooming  time  of  Grecian  art,  was  for  the  most  part  lost  in  Rome.  Roman  art,  like  the 
Roman  Mythology,  was  but  a  copy  from  the  Grecian.  By  the  Romans  all  seems  materialized, 
debased,  reduced  from  the  ideal  to  a  palpable  reality,  which  stifled  the  finer  conceptions, 
and  the  feeling  for  the  pure  germ  of  the  (Grecian  myths.  As  far  as  art  was  concerned,  the 
Romans  could  not,  in  one  single  point,  cope  with  their  Grecian  prototypes.  The  greedy, 
egoistic,  proud,  barbai-ous  conquerors,  possess  as  essentially  belonging  to  them,  beyond  the 
Wolf  of  the  Capitol — the  true  symbol  of  the  Roman  character — nothing  but  the  busts  of  the 
emperors,  in  which  may  plainly  be  seen  how  the  Romans  reduced  the  technics  of  art  which 
they  received  from  the  Grecians,  and  how  much  more  they  brought  down  the  grand 
conceptions  of  that  people  to  the  level  of  the  deepest  barbarism. 

The  Romans  had  lost  the  Grecian  art  of  painting,  and  they  resorted  to  Mosaic; 
to  this  they  gave  a  decided  preference,  ouing  to  its  almost  indestructible  firmnes.s,  and  to 
the  circumstance  that  it  was  originally  of  a  mathematical  character,  admirably  adapted  for 
the  sober,  calculating  minds  of  the  Romans.  In  their  sculpture  the  bass-relief  remained 
longest  endurable;  they  continued  to  produce  good  coins  in  Rome,  although  in  their  round 
figures  they  were  not  .able  to  wring  life  from  the  marble. 


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THE    VIUniN,    .IKSUS,    AND     ST.    JOHN,    AI'TEU    UAI'TIAEI.    SANZIO.  237 

Tlie  relief  works  and  tlic  mosaic  wci-e  carried  IjacU  liy  tlic  artists  to  liyzantium  wlien 
Rome  was  subdued  by  the  barbarian  hordes. 

The  first  signs  of  Ciiristian  art  discovered  themselves  in  those  times  when,  amidst  the 
shouts  of  thousands  of  caj^er  spectators,  the  arena  was  opened  to  the  Christians,  when  not 
only  men  and  youths,  but  women  and  old  men,  children  and  maidens  were  driven  to  meet 
the  contending  host  of  lions,  tigers,  leopards,  buffaloes,  and  elephants.  Thousands  of  Christians 
achieved  the  martyr's  crown,  in  the  arena  saturated  with  their  blood.  Their  lacerated  corpses, 
together  with  those  of  the  gladiators  i)y  profession,  and  the  captive  barbarians  wlio  had 
fought  their  last  fight  midst  the  clouds  of  dust  in  the  arena,  were  thrown  into  the  sand-pits, 
tiiosc  excavations  on  the  Via  Appia  whence  Rome  derived  its  sand  for  the  mortar  used  for 
building  purposes. 

In  these  narrow,  subterranean  labyrinths,  called  the  catacombs,  we  must  seek  the  first 
daAvn  of  Christian  art.  The  surviving  relations  of  the  martyrs  of  Christ  marked  the  resting 
places  of  the  deceased:  a  cross  served  as  a  symbol  of  redemption:  the  fisli  was  typical  of 
water  and  baptism:  a  ship,  of  the  voyage  made  by  the  apostles  Paul  and  Peter  from 
Palestine  or  the  Grecian  islands  to  reach  Italy,  as  the  same  sign  afterwards  typified  the 
Church  of  Christ:  the  dove  represents  the  Holy  Ghost,  the  Intercessor,  sent  by  the  Father, 
in  all  times  of  need:  and,  lastly,  the  serpent,  which  signifies  sin,  de.ath,  and  the  devil. 
Sometimes  these  symbols  are  cut  into  the  crypts,  but  more  frequently  painted  in  dark  colour. 

Figures  likewise  appear.  They  arc  drawn  in  broad  firm  strokes;  the  draping  is  that 
of  the  antique.  These  drawings  represent  either  the  deceased  in  connection  with  a  symbol, 
which  promises  the  certainty  of  everlasting  reward  for  their  sufferings,  or  they  are  portraits 
of  persons  mentioned  in  the  Holy  Scriptures;  Abraham  and  Isaac,  as  symbols  of  the  great 
sacrifice  of  Christ;  the  serpent  raised  by  Moses  in  the  camp  of  the  children  of  Israel,  as 
typical  of  the  crucifixion;  Jonah  and  the  whale,  as  emblematic  of  the  resurrection. 

The  dragon,  or  the  serpent,  trodden  under  foot  by  a  woman,  partially  refers  to  the 
.Mosaic  words:  "The  seed  of  the  woman  shall  tread  upon  the  head  of  the  serpent,  but  it  shall 
bruise  his  heel."     Again,  however,  this  representation  is  typical  of  the  virgin  mother  who 
gave  birth  to  the  Saviour,  the  victor  over  sin,  death,  and  the  devil. 

At  first,  the  Mother  of  God  and  the  Redeemer  were  separately  represented.  At  a  later 
period  appeared  the  Mother  with  the  Child. 

In  the  most  ancient  conceptions,  Christ  is  represented  as  the  Good  Shepherd.  lie  has 
been  endowed  with  the  attributes  of  Orpheus  and  Apollo,  in  order  to  shew  his  power  in 
conducting  us  from  the  horrors  of  death  again  to  light.  The  most  remarkable  of  the  old 
representations  of  the  head  of  Christ  was  discovered  in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Calixtus  in 
Rome.  The  drawing  was  of  colossal  proportions.  The  face  is  a  long  oval;  the  eye  large  and 
mild;  the  features  of  a  soft  expression;  the  long  hair  is  parted  in  the  middle  of  the  head, 
and  falls  in  rich  masses  over  the  shoulders;  the  beard  is  short,  parted  in  the  middle,  and  but 
lightly  indicated. 

This  is  the  traditional  type  of  onr  Redeemer's  countenance,  .and  is  so  described  by 
Lentulus  in   his  letter  to  the  Senate  of  Rome.    This   type   has   been   followed  in  all  later 


238  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

portrayals  of  the  Saviour  down  to  the  present  time.  In  the  same  way  were  the  earliest 
representations  of  the  heads  of  the  Apostles  Paul  and  Peter,  whinh  were  afterwards  raised 
to  the  highest  degree  of  beauty  and  sublimity. 

Up  to  a  very  recent  date  the  historians  of  Christian  art  have  been  wont  to  state  that 
the  most  ancient  pictures  of  the  Virgin  Mary,  \\'hich  have  been  preserved,  were  executed 
in  the  mosaic  manner.  These  paintings,  which  are  to  l)e  found  in  several  old  churches  at 
Rome,  Pisa  and  Venice,  show  the  Virgin  in  colossal  dimensions  and  in  costly  attire.  One 
hand  rests  on  her  bosom  and  the  eyes  are  raised  towards  heaven — a  sublime  "Ancilla  Domini." 
The  representations  of  the  Virgin  as  Mother  (Madonna)  seated  on  a  throne  and  holding  the 
infant  Jesus  in  her  arms,  were  believed  to  be  of  a  more  recent  date. 

A  short  time  ago,  however,  tlie  excavations  of  the  catacombs  of  St.  Priscilla  at  Rome 
caused  other  views  to  be  adopted,  with  regard  to  the  ancient  manner  of  representing  the 
Virgin.  So  early  as  the  commencement  of  the  second  century  Mary  apjiears  with  her  Child, 
in  paintings  as  well  as  in  stucco-work.  There  is  not  a  single  authenticated  poi-trayal  of  the 
Virgin,  which  dates  from  a  period  so  near  the  beginning  of  the  Christian  ffira,  as  do  these 
recently  discovered  delineations. 

During  the  third  century  the  representations  of  the  Virgin  fell  almost  into  desuetude, 
and  among  all  the  drawings  in  the  catacombs  of  St.  Calixtus  there  is  but  a  solitary  portrait 
of  the  Madonna  with  the  Child. 

Not  till  the  fifth  century  does  the  Virgin — without  the  Infant — make  her  re-appearance. 
The  free  and  classical  style  of  drawing  in  the  more  ancient  pictures  is  entirely  lost,  and  the 
face,  as  also  arragement  of  the  drapery,  bears  the  type  of  Byzantine  stiflTness,  and  want  of 
life  and  spirit.  From  the  sixth  century  begins  the  adoration  of  the  Madonna  and  the 
glorification  of  the  so-called  „Mother  of  God" — and  accordingly  in  the  works  of  art  of  that 
date  she  is  exalted  to  the  skies,  as  a  being  equal  to  the  Redeemer  and  even  to  the  Creator 
of  the  world. 

To  the  pictures  in  the  Byzantine  style  belongs  that  of  the  holy  Virgin,  painted,  as 
the  tradition  asserts,  by  the  Evangelist  St  Luke,  which  in  the  middle  of  the  fifth  century 
was  in  the  possession  of  the  Empress  Eudocia,  consort  of  Theodosius  II.,  in  Jerusalem,  as 
Baronius'  "Annals  of  the  Church"  and  also  the  writings  of  Tlieodorus  Lector  and  Nikophoros 
Kallistos  record.  This  picture  which  has  been  preserved  since  1150  in  Wladimir,  and  since 
1451  in  Moscow,  represents  the  Mother  of  Christ  as  between  forty  and  fifty  years  of  age. 
As  the  Holy  Virgin  in  her  twelfth  year  was  betrothed  to  St.  Joseph,  she,  of  course,  would 
have  been  in  the  time  of  the  Evangelist  approaching  the  estate  of  an  elderly  matron. 

The  first  commencement  of  Christian  art  in  Rome  was  crushed  by  the  savage  battles 
which  followed  the  death  of  Theodosius  the  Great,  in  the  year  393.  The  Roman  empire  was 
split  into  the  eastern  .and  western,  and  the  still  healthy  germs  of  art  fled  from  Rome  to 
Byzantium,  where  they  found  safety.  For  five  centuries,  art  in  Italy  lay  dormant;  if  we  date 
from  1180,  when  it  was  i-evived  by  the  activity  of  Bonannus  of  Pisa. 

The  Italians  had  formed  the  notion  that  painting,  which  in  Rome  was  looked  upon 
as  an  inferior  art,  was  unworthy  to  represent  the  sacred  persons  and  mysteries  of  Christianity. 


nil';  NiwiJiN,  .iKsus,  AM)  sr.  .khin,  aktkk   uaimiakl  sanzio.  239 

This  opinion  niis;lil  li,i\i'  hoi'ii  ju.^t,  as  i'ar  as  I'onccTncil  |)ainlinj;  lifin^'  a|ijilir<l  lo  dccoialion, 
liut  it  was  ujilield  wiiii  reference  to  tlic  liij;'lier  regions  of  jiainting  liy  iUv.  i{onian>,  who 
siicwc'il  a  (k'l'idt'd  inxlticnrc  for  the  liass-ri'lit'f  and  tlic  n)osaif.  Tills  dis])osition  for  scul|iturc 
for  a  h)nn-  tinio  tlu'cw  tlic  Christian  art  into  thi^  fetters  of  a  rigid  seheniatisni. 

Seiii|itiire  at  liial  time  possessed  as  Tittle  eapahility  as  it  dues  at  tiie  present  day,  to 
give  iiill  expression  to  the  tenor  of  Christian  religious  history.  It  was  not  siiflieii'iit  to 
represent  a  person  of  Chrislian  sacred  history,  with  liis  attributes,  symhols,  iVe.,  in  order  (o 
give  an  uiieurtailed  deseri[(tion  of  his  eliaraeter.  Art  had  to  otter  something  more  than  was 
required  for  the  gods  of  (Jrcece  and  Rome;  it  had  to  convey  more  than  a  mere  sign  of 
divinity — a  sign  which  suftieed  for  these  idols  created  by  the  sovereign  ])ower  of  man, 
representing  in  tiielr  lndi\idual  ])ersonalities,  a  concrete  sphere  of  intuitive  visions  of  nature; 
art  had  to  ilo  with  real  personages — prophets  and  saints,  the  living  Son  of  the  Creator  of 
heaven  and  earth. 

In  these  real  ])ersons  were  freedom  and  spontaneity.  They  were  not  like  the  Olymiiians, 
created  by  man,  bound  by  exterior  necessity,  according  to  wliieh  they  durst  not  otherwise 
appear  than  in  the  s[)irit  of  tiie  character  dietateil  to  them,  but  they  were  living  holy 
persons,  who  acted  in  accordance  with  their  comlctions,  emanating  from  their  own  sjiirit  and 
disposition.  Tiiese  jiersons  had  to  be  endowed  with  an  appearance  of  aninuition,  if  art  should 
do  justice  to  history.  Instead  of  tiie  heathen  statues  which  represented  the  ideas  of  life, 
but  were  themselves  ever  inanimate,  tlic  Christian  sacred  persons  needed  for  the  development 
of  their  perfect  appearance,  the  living  action,  the  expression  of  their  thoughts  and  I'celings. 
These  may,  perhaps,  be  ideally  conceived,  but  this  abstract  expression  of  the  essence  of  one 
of  our  sacred  persons  can  never  be  identical  with  the  person  himself  If  art  represent  this 
abstract  perce[)tion,  it  descends  to  mere  phrase,  to  the  province  of  allegory. 

The  nature  of  sculpture  admitted  but  an  obtuse  personification  in  the  detached  round 
figure.  The  arrested  emotion,  independent  of  air  and  light,  required  symbolism  to  assist 
in  the  delineation  of  that,  which  of  itself  alone,  it  had  not  the  power  to  convey — the  mind  of 
the  person.  Instead  of  this,  the  Grecian  gods  offer  nothing  but  the  outward  form,  in  which 
the  idea  of  its  essence  is  entirely  exhausted.  In  order  to  give  more  artistic  conception  to 
their  sacred  personages  than  could  be  achieved  by  the  round  figure,  tliey  resorted  to 
bass-relief. 

This  bass-relief  aftbrded  them  scope  for  the  epic,  \\  lileli,  lio\\e\er,  for  the  pur[)Ose  of 
the  Christian  artist,  appears  from  the  very  beginning  insufficient.  The  most  ancient  Byzantine 
reliefs,  as  we  learn  from  descriptions,  exhibited  the  adojitiou  of  picturesque  |)rinciples,  the 
introduction  of  perspectively  imagined  back-grounds  with  landscapes,  cities,  and  such  scenes 
as  tended  to  explain  what  was  presented  in  the  fore-ground.  The  antique  relief  discovers 
nothing  of  this  kind. 

An  example  of  the  use  made  of  relief,  as  practised  in  the  earliest  ages  of  Christian 
art,  is  presented  at  this  day  in  the  Russian  paintings  for  the  people,  the  manufactory  of 
pictures  of  Saints  in  Susdal.  For  instance,  in  the  fore-ground  Christ  is  crucified;  in  the 
back-<rround  is  a  mountain  with  an  excavation — the  "-rave  of  Christ,  from  which  tiie  iruard 
arc  frightened  away  by  the  angel,  while  Christ  rises  from  the  dead;  and  on  the  summit  of 


240  THE    OALLEJUES    OF    VIENNA. 

the  mountain  tlic  ascension  takes  place.  Tlicsc  pictures,  wliicli  are  painted  precisely  according 
to  the  designs  handed  down  to  posterity  above  ten  centuries  ago,  are  based  upon  the  most 
ancient  Byzantine  reliefs  and  mosaic  pieces. 

The  artists  of  the  early  Christian  ;cra,  harassed  by  the  feeling  of  insufficiency  in  their 
representations,  endeavoured  in  their  reliefs,  and  likewise  in  their  mosaic-work,  to  gain  a 
depth  of  back-ground  of  which  they  might  make  use.  On  this  they  produced  pers])ective 
representations  on  a  reduced  scale.  This  soon  became  too  difficult  for  the  rapidly  decaying 
technical  skill;  they  then  were  content  to  introduce  a  few  trees  or  flowers  into  their  back- 
grounds, angels'  heads  in  the  corners  of  the  picture;  or  they  sprinkled  the  back  of  it  with 
stars,  amongst  which  appeared  the  sun  and  the  moon,  till  they  simply  covered  the  ground 
with  gold  colour. 

As  they  despaired  of  effectively  calling  into  oi)eration  the  feeling  intended  to  be 
expressed  in  the  mien  and  action  of  their  figures,  they  sought  to  attract  the  eye  by  the 
dis])lay  of  rich,  bright  colours.  This  is  found  first  in  the  mosaic-work,  and  afterwards  in 
the  bass-relief  representations. 

The  first  Byzantine  tablet  painting  was  a  faithfid  copy  of  the  liass-relicf,  as  well  in 
the  arrangement,  as  in  the  drawing,  and  the  colouring.  At  first,  just  enough  shading  was  given 
to  imitate  the  slight  elevations  of  the  bass-relief.  They  however  soon  abandoned  this  style  of 
painting.  The  colours  were  used  unmixed  and  without  broken  tints,  and  only  worked  uj)  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  liveliness.  The  finer  features  of  the  faces  were  often  most  carefully  drawn, 
approaching  to  miniature;  but  the  colouring  consisted  of  a  uniform  yellow-red  flesh  tint. 
The  forms  had  fallen  into  downright  flatness.  The  arraiifrement  of  the  figures  sugijcsted 
the  bass-relief:  they  are  chiefly  placed  in  a  row  in  the  fore-ground;  then  perhaps  follows  a 
second  row,  itc.  This  monotony  of  arrangement  was  still  increased  by  the  succession  of 
figures  proportioned  to  their  coqioreal  size.  From  the  side  of  the  picture  to  its  centre  point 
the  figures  follow  one  after  the  other,  like  the  taller  or  shorter  men  in  front  of  a  regiment  of 
infantry,  or  like  the  pipes  of  an  organ.    But  this  monotonous  principle  did  not  end  here. 

Owing  to  this  systematic  plan  of  painting,  to  the  absence  of  a  perspective  treatment 
of  the  drawing,  and  natural  effect  of  light,  it  was  expedient  to  avoid  any  thing  like  fore- 
shortening. Where  this  could  not  be  dispensed  with,  such  a  position  was  obliged  to  be 
given  to  the  fore-shortened  parts,  that  they  were  still  not  to  be  overlooked.  By  degrees, 
rules  were  formed,  by  which  one  or  other  distorted  limb  might  be  represented,  so  that  the  flat 
figure  should  not  look  as  if  mutilated  by  the  limb  iu  question.  The  most  unnatural  stiftness 
accrued  from  this  system  of  rules.  Instead  of  the  characteristic  representation  of  animated 
beings,  glaring  gi'imace;  and  in  lieu  of  a  varied  natural  action,  an  awkward  symmetry. 

The  tcdency  of  the  religious  ideas  of  the  time  cut  off  all  return  to  real  nature.  The 
imitation  of  nature  was  looked  upon  as  a  heathen  principle.  The  Christians,  however,  had 
struck  into  another  path.  The  word  of  St  Clement  (died  220)  was  no  longer  valid:  That  the 
imitation  of  nature  constituted  the  merit  of  jiaiiiting,  and  the  exhibition  of  a  mere  fancy 
picture  was  to  be  regarded  as  a  reprehensible  delusion.  A  judge  of  the  fine  arts,  liisliop 
Theodoretus  (died  458)  says:  Nature  is  the  original  type,  art  the  copy.  That  copy  only 
deserves  praise  when  it  is  like  the  original. 


Till';    VlIUilN,    .JKSUS.    ANH    ST.    JOirN.    AFTKi;     I(A  I'HAKr,    SANZH).  211 

]?ut,  ill  the  fir.'^t  period  of  Byzantine  painting,  the  current  notion  was,  that  celestial 
things  could  have  no  prototype  in  the  terrestrial;  that  nature,  in  a  general  sense,  vitiated  iiy 
ihe  tall  of  man  in  Adam.  ]iossessed  no  claim  to  be  introduced  in  holy  re|)rcsentations.  The 
painter,  tlierefore,  had  only  to  (lra\\  upon  his  ideas,  his  inspiration,  his  visions,  wlien  he  intended 
to  represent  that  which  cxisttd  only  for  the  s{)iritual  eye.  Consequently,  the  conventinnal 
style,  the  type  of  tradition  in  art,  was  declared  unassailable,  anil  alfectedness  wielded  the 
sceptre.  Already  had  it  been  declared  in  the  Second  Council  of  Nicasa,  'The  painters  devise 
nothing,  but  invention  and  composition  are  matters  belonging  to  the  Fathers  (of  the  Church). 
The  personification  alone  is  the  affair  of  the  painters.'* 

Although  the  inunediate  oiyect  of  this  rule  was  to  divert  tiie  mind  from  a  false  idea 
of  sacred  history,  to  guard  against  a  distortion  of  dugmas  established  amongst  hard  struggles, 
and  to  prevent  the  dissemination  of  heretical  views,  the  conventional  style  of  painting  was  not 
the  less  perpetuated  thereby.  Instead  of  allowing  free  scope  to  the  style  of  representation  on 
condition  that  only  the  artistical  illustration  of  heretical  doctrines  should  be  avoided,  the 
manner  of  rendering  w:is  limited  to  what  had  gone  before,  and  this  opened  the  door  to  the 
most  degenerate  insipidity. 

Art,  reduced  to  mere  spiritless  copying,  was  practised  in  one  and  the  same  way 
by  the  Byzantines  till  the  downfall  of  their  empire,  as  is  shewn  by  the  great  number 
of  Grecian  tablet  pictures  which  are  to  be  found  in  Italy,  and  which  date  from  the  latter 
period  of  the  east  Roman  empire.  The  best  of  the  Byzantine  paintings  are  the  miniatures 
to  the  manuscripts,  amongst  which  are  the  Martyrology  of  the  library  in  the  Vatican;  the 
Code  of  St.  Gregory  of  Nazianzus  &c. 

It  was  reserved  for  tlie  Latin  Church  to  foster  art,  to  give  it  a  new  life  and  its 
natural  freedom.  It  was  in  the  year  1066,  when  St.  Desiderius,  as  Pope  of  Rome  called 
Victor  III.,  sent  to  Greece  to  invite  several  painters  of  repute  to  decorate  the  walls  of 
Monte  Casino,  the  ancient  monastery  of  the  Benedictines  at  Subiaco.  The  opident  cities  of 
Italy  immediately  followed  this  example,  Pisa  being  the  first.  In  this  city  a  magnificent 
cathedral  was  about  to  be  built.  The  I'isanese,  whose  attention  was  called  to  the  sculptured 
ornaments  by  the  Grecian  artists,  and  inflamed  by  the  account  of  the  treasures  of  Greek 
engravings,  instituted  researches  and  excavations  for  the  discovery  of  antique  Grecian  statues, 
with  which  they  entrusted  an  architect,  commonly  called  Buschetto,  who  was  by  birth  a 
Grecian.  Probably  he  received  his  surname,  because  he  was  obliged  to  plough  ((ioio/Mifto)) 
through  Greece  to  hunt  up  antique  sculptures. 

The  Pisanese  reaped  a  consideral>le  harvest  notwithstanding  that,  under  Arkadius,  the 
order  was  issued  that  all  ancient  pieces  of  sculptiu'e  found  in  tiic  teuiiiles  or  elsewhere  shoidd  be 
sent  to  the  chief  city.  The  effect  of  these  prototypes  of  a  refined  taste  on  Italian  painting  cannot 
be  too  highly  estimated,  for  out  of  these  sculptures  followed  its  praise-worthy  development. 

In  I'isa  arose  the  first  school  for  scLilptors,  founded  by  Buschetto.  Here  it  was  tried 
to  imitate  the  antique,  and  to  treat  architecture  according  to  the  models  of  the  flourishing 
period  of  Greece.  By  the  an-angement  of  Ilelienic  colunms,  Buschetto  rendered  plain 
to  tiie  comprehension  of  the  Italians  the  different  orders  of  Architecture  in  use  in  his 
native  country. 

*    Omril.  Nic.   II.  net.   \i.   p. I.    1711. 
Galleries  of  Vienna.  31 


242  THE    UALLErUES    OF    VIENNA. 

A  second  great  sculptor  of  Pisa  \v;is  Nicolo,  siirnamed  Pisano;  and  the  third  period 
of  rising  sculpture  in  Italy  is  denoted  hy  the  ap[icarance  of  the  nohle  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  the 
Florentine,  whose  gates  to  the  church  oi'  San  (iiovanni,  to  use  AJichael  Angelo"s  expression, 
are  worthy  to  adorn  the  euliancc  to  paradise. 

The  movement  in  sculj)ture  hut  slowly  gained  an  influence  over  the  sister  art.  The 
Byzantine  manner  was  still  practised,  and,  as  a  rule,  it  was  the  Grecians  \\ho  stood  at  the 
head  of  the  schools  of  [lainting,  as  in  Pisa,  Sienna,  and  Venice. 

We  are  arrived  at  tjie  tliirfeentli  century.  Pisa  possessed,  in  (iiunta  Buftalmacco, 
an  artist  of  re[)utc;  .Sienna  had  her  (Juido,  Florence  Bartolonieo,  Arezzo  Margheritone, 
Venice  Theophanes,  the  founder  of  her  school  oi'  painting.  They  all  painted  after  the 
Byzantine  taste,  with  inflexible  symmetrical  arrangement,  with  heavy  tones  of  colour,  decked 
out  with  gold,  and  irrespective  of  the  rules  of  perspective  under  which  the  natural  subjects 
appeared. 

The  figures  liy  tjicsc  masters  were  very  (all  and  meagre;  the  countenances  of  a 
narrow  oval  iorm;  the  long  eyes  were  almost  always  half  closed.  The  nose,  which  ran  in  a 
straight  line  from  the  forehead,  ajipeared  long,  tiie  chin,  on  the  contrary,  very  short.  There 
was  scarcely  a  trace  of  passion  in  the  mien.  The  drapery  was  heavy,  systematically  ordered, 
with  crisp,  angular  iblds.  Foreshortening  was  either  avoided,  or  the  parts  to  be  represented 
were  laid  flat  without  considering  the  bearing  of  the  body.  Every  tiling  in  tiie  picture  was 
on  the  same  plane. 

Giovanni  of  Florence  (124(1—13(12),  a  memlier  of  the  noble  family  of  Cimabue,  also 
called  Gualtieri,  made  the  first  step  towards  enlivening  and  setting  in  action  the  cold, 
stift'  figures  which  had  hitherto  monopolized  the  range  of  painting.  But  it  was  his  pupil 
Ambrogiotto  Boudone,  better  known  by  his  Christian  name  Giotto,  who  dissolved  the  ban 
under  which  the  figures  in  ])ainting  had  so  long  languished.    Dante  sings  of  him — 

Credetto   Ciiniibiie  jiella  pittiira 
Tener  lo  campo,  ed  ora  ha  Giotto  il  grido  — 
Sicche  la  fama  di  colui  oscuva. 

In  his  pictures  his  figures  acted  as  in  real  life;  they  wei-e  imlaicd  with  an  expression 
of  intellect  and  leeling,  so  that  they  manifested  their  intentions  without  the  interference  of 
inscriptions,  which  it  was  the  custom  to  have  issuing  from  the  mouth  of  the  persons  rei)resented. 
But  it  was  principally  through  the  introduction  of  foreshortening  that  he  broke  the  rigid 
phalanx  of  the  Byzantine  figures,  and  attained  the  appearance  of  animated  action.  His 
drapery,  certainly,  was  still  in  small  plaits  and  at  the  ends  often  angular;  but  it  was  in 
unison  with  the  action  of  the  figure,  and  no  longer  looked  like  a  chipped,  zigzagged  blind, 
behind  which  the  figure  was  hidden  up  to  the  neck. 

Scarcely  had  Giotto's  magic  apothegm  resounded  before  it  created  a  movement  in 
painting  throughout  Italy. 

Amongst  the  imitators  of  (iiotto  Andrea  C'ioni,  sur-named  Orcagna,  Simonc  Memini, 
and  Taddeo  Gaddi,  held  the  first  rank.  Highly  endowed  as  these  scholars  were,  still  they 
are  by  no  means  those  artists  who  secured  a  decided  influence  i'or  the  principle  of  action 


TlIK    VIliOlN,    JKSUS,    AND    ST.    JOHN.    AI-'TKK     KAI'llAKl,     SANZIO.  243 

wliicli,  ill  a  .stnlc  ot  inftiiicy,  wa.s  inlrocliiced  l)y  (iiottn.  I'licir  iiivoiitioii  did  not  exceed  tliaf 
of  tlieir  iiKititer.  A.i  Nirolo  I'i.-ianii,  flie  .s(ul|)((ii',  iiointed  out  tlic  riLilif  way  to  Giotto,  ajfain 
a  senl|)tor  wa.s  required  to  in.<|iire  a  fierv  inventive  geniu.s  in  [laintini;  to  ai'rive  ai  a  liii^lier 
dei;re(!  oi'  jn-oiiri's.-:ion. 

'riiis  .-icnlptor  wa.s  Lorenzo  fihiherti.  In  iiis  relievos  on  tlie  sates  of  San  fiiovanni 
in  Florence  is  united  a  nolilc  sinij)licity  of  concc[)tion  in  the  design  with  a  powerliil  energy 
for  the  ]ior(rayal  oi'  the  genuine  i'eeiing  of  his  figures.  The  composition  of  his  pictures  is 
simple,  the  action  clear.  Tlie  action  is  not  only  free,  i)ut  exceedingly  graceful;  an  elevated 
harmony  connects  the  changing  appearance  of  the  forms;  lightly  and  with  a  noble  composure 
the  figures  step  ixi'ore  us  to  convey  to  us  their  ideas  and  sensations.  It  is  the  true  epic  style 
which  we  meet  in  the  works  of  Lorenzo.  This  style  caused  an  epoch  in  Italian  art.  It  remained 
tlie  leading  ]>rincij)le  oi'  different  schools,  which  by  degrees  began  to  flourish,  and  which,  in 
spite  of  many  .singularities,  adhered  to  flii'  epic  impersonation,  till  the  appearance  of  that  great 
genius  who  was  to  advance  in  art  to  the  highest  ]ioint  of  dramatic  style — Michael  Angelo. 

Till  the  year  14.')0  the  Florentines  held  the  first  rank.  Tiiey  were  succeeded  by  the 
Bolognese  and  Paduese.  The  Venetians,  more  than  any  others,  had  remained  firm  to  the 
Byzantine  style.  The  reformers  of  this  school,  the  brothers  Bellini,  must  have  been  first 
educated  by  Gentile  Fabriaiio,  an  Umbrian,  who,  together  with  Ottaviano  Wartis,  lent 
importance  to  this  school. 

Of  the  school  of  Ghilierti  «as  Paolo  Uccello,  the  first  who  ajiplied  matjicmatics  to 
perspective  and  introduced  a  strictly  scientific  treatment  instead  of  the  uncertainty  hitherto 
manifested  in  this  department  of  art.  Manetti  translated  for  him  "The  Elements  of  Euclid." 
Masaccio,  whose  real  name  was  Tommaso  Guido,  of  St.  Giovanni,  brought  into  practice  the 
theory  introduced  by  Uccello. 

It  was  Masaccio  who  did  away  with  that  want  of  freedom  so  conspicuous  in  the 
figures.  He  was  not  only  a  master  in  the  art  of  foreshortening,  but  he  placed  his  figures 
under  tlie  government  of  light.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  understood  how  to  paint  the  soul 
as  well  as  the  body.  His  influence  extended  to  the  middle  of  the  fifth  decennium  of  the 
fifteenth  century.  He  already  began  to  introduce  architecture  and  landscape  into  his  pictures, 
and  exhibited  more  of  the  nude  figure  than  had  hitherto  been  usual. 

The  defectiveness  in  the  treatment  of  the  nude  decreased  by  the  endeavours  of  Luca 
Sigiiorelli,  who  made  anatomy  his  study.  His  pictures  in  the  Cathedral  of  Orvieto  are 
specimens  of  correct  drawing,  of  liohtness  and  grace,  which  Signorelli  understood  to  unite  with 
a  rapid  movement  of  his  figures.  The  drapery  is  ample,  lightly  treated,  and  its  undulation, 
obedient  to  the  action  of  the  limb.s,  is  scarcely  to  be  surpassed. 

With  Domenico  Ghirlandajo  the  old  Florentine  school  had  attained  a  freedom  of 
personification  which  would  have  been  ciuite  realistic  if  the  artists  had  not  always  taken 
care  iluit  the  characteristic  of  their  figures  was  not  totally  copied  from  the  life,  but 
preserved  certain  still  existent  notions  regarding  licauty  of  forms.  To  this  belongs  a  certain 
cast  of  features :  the  visage  of  a  very  long  oval  form,  an  excessively  short  upper  lip,  a 
massive  chin,  an  impracticably  small  niouih  for  tlie  figures  of  females,  angels,  and  children. 
The  tone  of  the  pictures  is  throughout  that  of  a  mild  .seriousness;  the  expression  of  feeling 

31* 


244  THE    OALLERTES    OF    VIENNA. 

appears  always  retained;  the  entire  expression  of  tlie  pictures  is  harmonious,  clear,  and  of  a 
morning  freshness. 

The  Paduese,  the  disciples  of  Francesco  Squarcionc,  appear  otherwise.  In  Padua,  at 
the  source  of  classic  erudition,  the  disposition  for  the  antique  was  developed,  in  wliicli  every 
thing  that  was  called  tradition  in  art  was  excluded.  The  antique  form  appears  under  the  hand 
of  an  Andrea  Mantegna  with  eclectic  strictness.  ^Vith  these  forms  it  was  difficult  to  connect 
tlie  purport  of  Christian  perceptions  and  sentiments.  Mantegna's  pictures  could  never  cope 
with  this  difficulty.  His  celehrated  Madonna  della  Vittoria,  the  maiden  of  victory,  is  more 
of  a  heathen  Victoria  than  the  Christian  dispenser  of  mercy,  victorious  througii  pain.  Iler 
attendants,  the  Archangel  Michael  and  St.  Mauritius,  are  Roman  pn\3tors,  armed  witli  liie 
weapons  of  the  fourteenth  century. 

The  forms  of  Mantegna  forced  him  to  another  side,  to  find  out  tiieir  corresponding  tenor. 
He  proceeded  to  the  allegorical,  and  represented  Wisdom,  Strength,  Justice,  &c.  A  step  farther 
and  ho  reached  vVpollo  and  the  Muses,  Mars,  Venus,  and  Cupid.  Tiic  painter  never  appears 
to  more  advantage  than  in  this  picture.  Mantegna  made  a  tremendous  hit  when  he  represented 
The  Triumph  of  Julius  Cffisar:  it  was  the  newly  invented  profane  style  of  painting  standing 
forth  in  its  completeness,  and  taking  its  position  by  tlie  side  of  the  Chi-istian  practice  of  art. 

The  so-called  Christian  "Mystics"  took  a  totally  opposite  direction;  they  painted  the 
mysteries  of  our  religion  wliicli  can  never  he  comprehended  by  mortals,  but  can  only  be 
felt  in  devotional  ecstacy.  In  these  painters,  the  expression  of  iiicir  figures  is  the  product 
of  such  an  ecstatic  frame  of  mind,  wiiich,  in  itself  a  mystery,  interprets  to  us  the  mysterious. 

The  most  remarkai)le  master  of  the  mystic  turn  is  the  monk  Giovanni  Angelico 
da  Fiesole,  by  his  secular  name  Guido  Petri  de  INhigello,  the  blessed  (il  heaf.o),  wiio  in  his 
deep  feeling,  in  his  fervent,  de^■otional  flights  to  the  incomprehensible  mysterious,  to  the 
merciful  adorable  One,  and  in  his  almost  visionary  greatness,  divested  of  all  earthliness,  has 
not  been  equalled  by  any  painter.  His  Madonnas  are  the  personifications  of  the  deepest 
peace  of  soul;  a  pure  light  of  grace  surrounds  them  which  is  not  of  this  world.  If  the 
mysteries,  which  unite  the  eartii  to  the  glorious  regions  of  the  paradise  above,  are  to  be 
represented  after  the  sense  of  tiie  ecstatic  believer,  painting  possesses  no  higher  type  than 
this  Dominican  monk  of  the  convent  of  St.  Marco  in  Florence. 

His  INIadoiina  is  that  of  St.  i>ernard.  She  is  the  noble  star  of  Jacob  whose  beam 
illumes  all  the  world;  the  brilliant  constellation,  which,  as  the  poet  says,  must  dawn  over 
this  great  and  extensive  sea,  beaming  with  merit,  lighting  by  her  own  example. 

Angelico's  Madonnas  are  the  embodiment  of  the  wonderfully  beautiful  and  soft  hymn 
Ave  Maris  Sle/fa!    Hail  to  tiiee,  star  of  the  sea! 

Ut  ri.\u  sunt  Serena 
Nocturna  sidera, 
Ut  verna  sunt  amrtna 
In  eampis  lilia: 

Sic,   \'irt;t)  claritatis 
Es  flore  t'ulf,^i(la; 
Sie,  Mater  earitatis 
Es  ore  linipitla! 


TilE    VIUGIN,    JKSUS,    AND    ST.    JOHN,    Al'TKU    liAl'llAKI.    SANZIO.  245 

As  in  the  tent  of  heaven 
Shines  the  star  of  e'en, 
As  the  lily  of  the  vftlley 
Is  of  fiiAvefS   the  (lUeen : 

So  :u-t   Ihon,    Ihily   ^'ir^in, 
III   tin-   n-uhns   alicive. 
Mutlior  of  ail  (^,,o^iig.;,s, 
Sonrcc  of  grace  and  love! 

These  I\In(lnnii;is  of  Fic^olc-^  iirc  tlie  very  contrary  of  tlie  inscnsil)le  and  ;i\vk\v:u(l 
Byzantine  ])ictures  of  the  Viin'm,  those  idols  of  ice,  as  also  of  those  images  by  Andrea 
Mantognn,  in  wliich  the  externals  haxo  the  fjieatei'  iin|ior(ance,  and,  in  most  eases,  have  a 
eertain  kind  of  picturesque  ])osition. 

The  Undirians  jiroceeded  in  another  way;  their  school  afterwards  coalesced  witii  that 
of  the  city  of  Koine.  The  beginninj;-  of  the  school  of  Rome  produced  miniature  painting 
for  manuscripts,  in  a  typical  style.  The  stir  effectuated  in  art,  in  Upper  Italy,  was  for  a 
long  time  hut  weakly  res])onded  to  in  Koine  and  the  cities  of  importance  in  the  States  of  the 
C-hurch.  AA'ithout  mentioning  the  older  masters,  whose  works  want  the  expression  of  the 
individuality  of  the  painters — owing  to  tlieir  uniform  typical  natiu'c — we  will  commence 
with  (ientile  da  Faijriano.  This  painter  had  a  tinge  of  the  de\()tional  glow  of  Angelico 
da  Fiesole,  only  that  the  Dominican  surpasses  him  in  variety  and  delicacy  of  expression,  as 
well  as  in  greater  iieauty  of  form. 

The  Komans  soon  divested  their  works  of  the  Byzantine  accessories.  Neither  the 
gilded  ground  nor  the  architectural  arahesque  is  found  in  Faliriano's  [lictures  in  the  thirtieth 
year  of  the  fifteenth  century.  But  while  the  Florentines  had  got  heyond  the  symmetrical 
arrangement  of  the  Bvzantincs,  it  was  still  kept  n[)  in  the  schools  of  the  Koman  State. 

Amongst  the  Koman  schools  outside  Rome  those  of  Peruy-ia  and  Fihino  were 
important.  In  the  first  city  a  society  of  painters  existed  as  early  as  in  the  thirteenth  century. 
Wlien  Sixtiis  V.  wished  to  have  the  Vatican  decorated  with  pictures  he  called  the  I'erugians 
to  Rome.  Of  the  Urbiners  —  besides  Lorenzo  di  Siin-Severino  and  Giovanni  Santi,  the  father 
of  the  renowned  head  of  the  later  Roman  school — Fra  Bartolomeo  Corradini  is  especially 
worthy  of  mention.  He  showed  in  his  pictures  an  important  element,  which  was  of  great 
significance  for  the  Roman  style  of  representation. 

Fra  Bartolomeo  introduced  portraits  into  his  pictui'es.  At  the  same  time  that  he 
remained  true  to  the  traditionary  forms  of  the  holy  personages,  he  placed  portraits  of  living 
persons  in  the  foregrounds.  This  dualism  necessarily  rc(|uired  a  harmonising  medium.  The 
portrait  figures  could  not  lose  their  true  natural  aspect,  if  they  were  to  remain  such;  it 
therefore  appeared  indispensable  to  represent  the  holy  personages,  hitherto  treated  typically, 
in  a  more  natural  style,  in  order  to  fill  up  the  gaping  chasm.  If  the  Florentines  were 
oijliged  only  to  take  their  action  from  the  antique,  the  Komans  had  their  source  much 
nearer.  Their  models,  living  men,  were  not,  indeed,  patterns  of  refined  art,  hut  still  tJiey 
offered  examples  of  characteristic  form  and  striking- expression. 


246  THE    GALr.EKlES    OF    VIENNA. 

Tlie  Florentines,  with  tlieir  masteiy  of  ready-made  forms  and  academical  action, 
found  no  difficulties  in  giving  a  picture  full  of  figures.  In  this  ])oint  the  Romans  remained 
greatly  behind.  They  were  obliged  to  form  and  rc-1'orni  their  figures  drawn  from  the  lii'e, 
before  these  j)ortrayals  could  be  made  to  exjiress  the  intention  of  the  jiaintcr.  The  artists, 
therelbre,  limited  themselves  in  their  compositions  to  the  greatest  possible  simplicity,  so  that 
they  might  steer  clear  of  a  multiplicity  of  intricacies,  which,  otherwise,  they  would  not  have 
been  able  to  contend  against.  The  Romans  had  entered  the  path  which  forces  the  painter 
to  display  as  much  as  possible  his  personal  peculiarities  in  his  work;  while  the  Florentines, 
in  order  to  assert  their  individuality,  first  of  all  ]iossessed  only  the  arrangement  of  their 
figures  according  to  given  academical  forms,  and,  secondly,  had  the  difficult  task  to  perform 
of  giving  these  forms  an  individual  expression — a  task  which  even  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was 
very  rai'ely  able  to  accomplish. 

Leonardo  stands  at  the  turning-point  between  the  ancient  and  modern  period  of 
Italian  art.  This  wonderful  genius  comprehended  that  which  was  locked  up  in  the  ancient 
period,  and,  like  a  Pharos,  illumined  the  way  which  the  younger  generation  of  artists  was  to 
take.  In  him  were  united  the  diflFerent  phases  which  by-and-by  were  to  l)e  represented  by 
magnificent  heroes. 

Da  Vinci  was  clever  In  the  outward  form  according  to  the  antique  model  which  called 
into  action  Angelo's  transcendent  genius,  rather  to  the  expression  of  his  ideas  than  of  his 
sentiment.  He  was  the  master  for  representing  the  cliaracteristic,  which,  like  Raphael,  he 
worked  up  to  the  ideal  greatness  of  classical  form.  Like  Correggio  and  Tizian,  also,  he 
understood  by  his  colouring  and  by  the  outward  cpialifications  under  which  his  figures  appear, 
how  to  secure  an  effect  in  them  whi('h  would  operate  upon  our  minds,  consonant  with  the 
intention  of  the  painter.  In  neither  of  these  directions  has  Da  Vinci  produced  many  pictures — 
in  Raphael's  but  one — but  these  are  sufficient  to  stamp  the  master  as  a  model.  It  is  not  the 
least  charm  in  the  creations  of  Leonardo,  which  do  not  exclusively  belong  to  either  of  these 
styles,  that  he  strives  to  unite  all  those  elements  and  to  combine  them  in  Jiis  representation. 

Pietro  Vanucci,  better  known  by  liis  surname  Perugino,  the  cotemporary  of  Leonardo, 
was  the  greatest  Umbrian  painter  since  Gentile  da  Fabriano.  Witli  him  the  school,  of  which 
he  was  the  head,  reached  its  highest  lustre.  Ancient  Umhria  included  the  present  Duchy 
of  Spoleto.  The  most  remarkable  cities  of  this  district  were  Perugia,  Foligno,  Assisi,  and 
Spoleto.  In  the  middle  ages  Umbria,  with  its  sequestered  valleys  and  isolated  cities,  was 
known  as  the  seat  of  religious  enthusiasm.  This  was  the  soil  from  which  a  St.  Francis  might 
spring;  it  was  here  that  he  assembled  around  him  his  self-denying  scholars.  The  Umbrians 
possessed  a  quiet  contemphitiveness,  a  deep,  lasting  sensibility;  they,  however,  were  not  more 
wanting  in  spirit  than  the  natives  of  Upper  Italy,  who  used  to  look  upon  the  ITmbrians  as 
silent,  dreaming  simpletons,  who,  in  point  of  clear,  quick  perception,  could  in  no  way  cope 
with  the  Tuscans. 

Amid  that  people,  and  not  much  influenced  by  outward  circumstances,  that  style 
of  painting  developed  itself  which  culminated  in  Pietro  Perugino.  The  traditional  iorm 
of  holy  persona  maintained  its  ground,  notwithstanding  the  portrait  figures  introduced 
into  the  picture;   but,   by  degrees,   a  more  natural  expression,  more  animation   flowed   into 


TiiK  vii;(iix,  Jicsus,  ANi>   sr.  .iniix,  Airici;   uai'Iiaei,  sanzio.  247 

(hose  Iiollow  (y]>os.  The  abstract  [in-cciir,  the  rii;i(l  (Jonma  cxi)resse(l  by  tlic  hitter,  now 
received  its  iiiter])retation  tliroiinli  the  re|nes('iitati(in  of  natural  t'cclini;'s.  Tlie  Uinhrians 
knew  as  little  cil  ihc  acadeinical  beauty  oi'  t'urui  of  the  I'iorentines,  as  of  the  mystical 
ecstasy  of  a  Fi'a  Anifelieo  and  his  disciiilcs.  I'erugino's  lic)iy  |iers()uai;cs  jiresent  ;i  jjlain 
dii;ui(v,  an  un))retcndini;  sublimity.  1^"*  they  aie  iull>-  endowed  with  the  laeulties  of  loving, 
Mioiu'uing,  sull'ering:  lliey  have  a  disposition  ibr  human  sensations;  to  exercise  their  office 
of  mercy  they  eonic  near  to  their  confiding,  pious  adorers,  and,  full  of  pity,  have  jilaeed 
themselves  on  a  level  with  hiunauity,  which  seeks  helj)  and  consolation.  The  Divine  is  in 
the  most  simple  manner  bound  u|i  with  tlie  human.  The  sentiment  is  deep,  intense;  the 
expression  simple  liut  agreeable;  the  warmth  of  feeling  is  evident,  but  does  not  appear  free, 
l)Ut  rather  in  a  latent  state. 


ic 


Like  Mantegna,  Perugino  also  seized  upon  the  heathen  s[)herc.  In  his  pictures  in  tl.„ 
Exchange  in  Perugia  we  find  Horatius  Codes,  Fabius  Maximus,  Socrates,  Pythagoras, 
Pericles,  and  other  classic  celebrities,  without  any  scruples  standing  close  to  Isaiah,  Moses, 
Daniel,  and  other  jiropliets  and  Christan  Saints;  the  result,  however,  is  any  thing  but 
successful. 

Perugiuo's  pictures  of  the  Madonna  are  especially  worthy  of  notice.  They  are  full 
of  iu)blc  simplicity  and  are  iiftcn  endowed  witli  a  touching  grace,  which  lies  less  in  the  form 
than  in  the  cxiiression  of  the  countenance.  In  these  there  is  nothiu"-  artificial,  nothin"' 
overdrawn  like  most  of  the  Florentine  Madonnas.  The  character  of  modest  maidenhood,  of 
humility,  of  pious  obedience,  is  prominent  in  Perugino's  Madonnas;  but  they  combine  the 
(pialities  of  Raphael's  Queen  of  Heaven,  who  as  victress  presents  the  Child  of  God  to  sinful 
men  that  they  may  kneel  and  fall  down  and  worship  Him. 

If  we  review  the  master  works  of  the  ancient  Italian  school  of  painting,  the  truth  is 
inevitably  forced  upon  us  that,  with  the  exception  of  Leonai'do's  picture  of  the  Last  Supper, 
the  stream  of  real  life  did  not  flow  in  them.  On  all  sides  we  meet  limitations  to  the  freedom 
of  representation,  either  in  the  conception  or  in  the  technical  execution,  which  were  not  to 
be  surmounted  by  the  artists.  The  knowledge  of  the  form  of  the  human  frame  as  possessed  by 
the  Grecians  we  find  nowhere,  not  even  an  approximation,  and  in  this  respect  tlie  Italian 
schools  of  painting  are  not  to  be  mentioned  with  those  of  Sikyon,  Corinth,  Rhodes,  and 
Athens.  The  flesh  shewn  by  the  old  Italians  consisted  of  the  face,  hands,  and  feet;  over  the 
other  parts  of  the  figure  a  rich  drapery  was  sjjrcad,  which,  independently  of  its  redundance, 
still  proclaimed  its  antique  origin.  The  painters  were  unable  to  master  the  action  of  the 
human  figure.  The  diffidence  which  we  are  inclined  to  ascribe  to  the  conceptions  of  those 
old  masters,  as  we  now  know  no  <lifficulties  in  technics,  is  in  most  cases  attributable  to 
an  evasion  of  the  theme,  for  which  in  the  olden  time  the  means  of  representation  were 
insufficient.  This  invisible  barrier  intrudes  itself  in  the  most  celebrated  pictures;  we  will 
instance  even  Leonardo's  "Last  Supper,"  and  ]]ut  the  ipiery.  Why  do  all  the  company  sit 
behind  the  table,  leaving  the  whole  of  the  front  unoccupied?  The  painters  were  obliged  to 
yield  to  an  external  necessity;  they  were  forced  to  halt  when  the  means  of  representation 
were  exhausted,  in  order  to  remain  within  the  sphere  with  which  they  were  familiar,  instead 
of  forming  their  pictures  according  to  internal  necessity. 


248  THE    GALLtHIES    OF    VIENNA. 

An  important  means  for  acquiring  the  highest  effect  in  pictures,  with  regard  to  Hght, 
air,  and  local  tone,  introduced  into  Italy  by  Antonello  of  Messina,  and  quickly  applied  by 
the  Venetian  (iian  Bellini,  raised  oil  jminting  to  a  higher  step;  duly  considered,  however, 
neither  the  composition  nor  the  manner  in  which  the  figures  were  conceived,  was  suited  for 
this  animated  colouring.  The  passions  being  rarely  represented,  the  want  of  true,  natural 
characteristic  rendered  necessary  the  dry  colour  of  fresco,  or  the  more  general  tempera 
manner.  Of  all  schools  the  Umbrian  was  the  best  endowed  with  those  qualifications  which 
the  essential  character  of  oil  painting  demands.  That  the  truth  to  nature,  brought  about  by 
the  Umlirians,  was  materially  advanced  through  the  medium  of  oil  painting,  needs  no  connncnt. 
They  liad,  however,  to  proceed  nuich  farther  before  light  and  air,  like  that  of  C'orreggio,  could 
be  established  as  the  leading  principles  of  a  picture. 

Foremost  came  the  mighty  one  who  broke  the  ban  in  which  the  human  figure  was 
involved^Michel  Angelo. 

This  genius  is  one  of  the  greatest  representatives  of  concentrated  intellectual  powers. 
Next  to  him  is  Da  Vinci,  who,  almost  like  an  amateur,  divided  and  wasted  his  strength. 
While  Da  Vinci's  genius  fitted  him  for  almost  anything,  still  he  did  but  little  to  further  the 
invidual  branches  of  art. 

Leonardo  ilrew  with  the  greatest  facility,  and  his  knowledge  of  anatomy  was  con- 
siderable. Tic  found  no  difficulty  in  conceiving  and  portraying  the  most  rapid  action.  For 
all  this,  his  drawing  is  not  free.  In  few  pictures  only,  and  at  the  latter  period  of  his  life, 
could  he  force  himself  out  of  the  academical  manner  prevailing  in  Florence  which  had,  in 
its  way,  duly  prepared  the  antique  for  convenient  use. 

The  ultimate  motives  of  action,  is,  as  a  rule,  wanting  in  Leonardo's  pictures.  In  the 
greater  number  of  his  productions  it  would  be  difficult  to  discover  the  reason  wliy  the  figures 
appear  precisely  in  the  manner  in  which  it  pleased  the  painter  to  represent  them,  and  not 
perchance  otherwise.  ^Ve  will  take  his  .St.  ^Vnna,  in  the  Louvre.  The  venerable  mother  of 
the  Virgin  holds  her  daughter,  who  plays  with  the  infant  Jesus  on  her  knee,  while  the  latter 
toys  Avith  a  lamb.  In  this  picture  there  is  nothing  which  absolutely  demands  the  necessity  of 
i-ecognising  the  holy  persons,  whom  the  master  represented.  The  idea  of  a  nice  combination, 
a  complexity  of  figures,  is  taken  quite  generally  and  conceivetl  most  superficially,  for  the 
purpose  of  forming  a  singular  group.  In  this  "singularity"  lay  the  interest  which  the  master 
took  in  the  performance.  But  he  ought  to  shew  in  what  way  these  figures  are  intrinsically 
allied  to  each  other;  the  character  of  his  persons  ought  in  the  same  singular  manner  in 
which  the  painter  has  introduced  them,  to  be  represented  to  our  senses,  and  if  Leonardo 
introduces  anvtliing  imcommon  in  his  pictures,  the  object  should  be  to  make  the  figures 
appear  in  an  unconunon  degree  as  those  which  they  ought  to  represent. 

But  in  most  cases  Leonardo  remains  by  the  outward  form  only.  What  his  persons 
are  engaged  in,  they  might  just  as  well  let  alone.  All  depends  upon  the  master's  pleasure. 
Were  his  personages  more  self-conscious,  were  his  pictures  more  spiritual,  they  would  have 
compelled  the  painter  to  have  brought  these  characteristics  into  greater  ]irominence.  Leonardo, 
for  this  reason  only,  could  have  laid  aside  so  many  pictures  unfinished,  because  they  were 
deficient  in  this  essential  element — the  energy  of  mind  and  feeling — which  the  painter  must  first 
of  all  seize  upon  before  his  creations  can  possess  interest  for  the  mere  beholder  of  tiic  ])icture. 


TilE    VIKGDC.    JKSl'S.    AND    ST.    JOHN,    AFTEK     KAPHAEL    SANZIO.  249 

In  oidiT  to  imbue  his  figures  witii  tlie  power  of  this  ideal  animation,  Leonardo 
resorted  to  liglit  and  colour.  These,  certainly,  are  very  active  agents  when  in  conjunctioD 
with  objects  naturally  conceived.  But  if  tiie  object  possess  not  this  property,  then  liglit  and 
colour  form  the  sharpest  commentary  on  the  want  of  it.  Instead  of  concealing,  tiicy  at  once 
render  the  deficiency  of  an  individual  life  more  apparent.  No  painter,  perhaps,  tried  sc 
many  experiments  in  the  technical  department  of  coloiu'  as  Leonardo  da  Vinci;  for  all  this 
he  did  not  discover  the  secret  of  painting  the  essenti;d  in-dwelling  idea  where  the  conceptioi 
of  the  oliject  is  purely  external. 

His  great  rival,  Mlclicl  Angelo.  directed  the  full  force  of  his  powers  to  the  externality 
of  his  figures.  The  i'orni  itself  was  intended  to  convey  the  tenor  oi  his  thoughts,  lie  requirea 
no  conditions  external  to  his  figures,  no  lighting,  no  colour.  His  forte  lay  in  the  drawing, 
the  outline.  He  created  in  painting  a  race  of  moving  statues.  If  the  Florentines  in  their 
figures  never  penetrated  beneath  the  surface,  Michel  Angelo  built  his  figiu'cs  from  within 
with  a  veritable  creative  power,  that  is,  as  far  as  concerns  their  corporeality.  He  began  witii 
the  bones  instead  of  the  epidermis:  he  covered  the  skeleton  with  sinews,  ligaments,  veins, 
and  muscles,  and  then  set  these  automata  in  the  most  \iolent  action.' 

This  was  more  than  the  Grecians  would  ever  have  ventured,  presuming  that  they 
were  able  to  accomplish  it.  In  the  harmonious  proportions  of  the  human  figtu'c  and  its 
natural  movements,  Angelo  souglit  to  find  expression  for  his  lnuiiidless  imagination.  Tiie 
academical  foriu,  with  its  superficial  imitation  ol'  the  anti(juc  winch  the  older  Florentines 
and  Leonardo  da  Vinci  had  appropriated  to  themselves,  was  out  of  tiie  question  with 
Michel  Angelo.  He  was  bound  up  with  anatomical  premises  only.  He  knew  every  fibre 
in  the  texture  of  the  muscles,  and  he  spared  not  a  single  one  in  shewing  that,  which 
he  held  tt)  be  the  greatest  development  of  power.  AVhile  admitting  his  premises  as  correct, 
he  also  forces  us  to  acknowledge  indisputably  their  consequences — the  utmost  violence 
of  action;  and  granting  them,  we  must,  in  most  cases,  submit  to  regard  these  figures  as 
possible. 

Yes!  Possible  in  the  realms  of  thought  and  fancy!  ^lichcl  Angclo's  figures  do  not 
appertain  to  the  sentient  world.  No  human  body  could  endure  the  action  which  Michel 
Angelo  gives  his  figures,  without  suffering  dislocation.  His  figures,  brought  into  the  light 
of  the  sun  and  presented  to  us  as  hiuiiau  beings,  would  be  monsters,  witli  whom  we  shuuiil 
be  about  as  much  at  home,  as  if  we  were  in  a  conqiany  of  antediluvian  beasts.  Michel 
Angelo's  figures  are  not  compatible  with  natural  light  and  colour:  such  lighting  woidd 
seldom  suffice  them;  in  the  labyrinth  of  liuir  nuiscles  they  have  always  more  to  show  us 
than  we  should  be  able  to  see  under  tiie  ordinary  eft'ect  of  light.  The  artist  very  frequently 
wants  to  display  distinctly  detailed  forms  where,  according  to  the  natural  lighting,  deep 
shadows  woidd  be  thrown,  through  whose  veil  the  fine  minutia>  of  the  relief  are  no  more 
perceptible.  In  such  a  ease  Michel  Angelo  hesitates  not  a  moment  in  sacrificing  the  natural 
effect  of  light  in  order  that  we  may  feel  with  our  eyes  his  painted  figures.  His  first  principle 
is  always  that  of  the  sculptor,  and,  afterwards,  lie  |)aints  his  sculptured  conceptions.     ' 

Michel  .Vngcio  produced  few  pictures  in  which  nature  itself  may  be  said  to  be 
rertected.  But  even  in  these  he  managed  to  shew  that  they  emanated  from  his  own  free  Held 
of  fancy.    In  his  earioon  representing  Florentine  soldiers  bathing  in  the  Arno,  and  sumuioncd 

OuUeries  .>l   Viomia  :i2 


250  THE    GALLERIKS    OF    VIENNA. 

to  the  camp  by  the  sound  of  the  trumpet,  he  present*  us  an  inoident  essentially  borrowed 
from  life.  But  the  way  he  represents  the  scene  would  hardly  find  an  analogy  in  nature. 
These  naked  or  half  dressed  figures  look  like  a  legion  of  Borghe.se  fighters,  or  gladiators  of 
the  arena  who,  while  drawing  on  their  clothes  or  throwing  their  shirts  over  their  shoulders, 
display  a  contraction  of  muscle  sufficient  to  strangle  a  bear,  or  to  crush  the  limlis  of  a 
human  adversary.  After  viewing  for  a  short  time  these  figures,  our  ideas  are  withdrawn 
from  what  they  are  doing  and  the  violence  of  their  action  leads  us  to  enquire  how  they  do  it! 

If  ever  there  were  a  painter  whose  imagery  was  exclusively  his  own  property,  certainly 
it  is  Michel  Angelo.  He  knows  no  other  boundary  of  representation  than  that  of  his  own 
intellectual  comprehension,  supported  by  the  most  mighty  fancy.  Eeal  life  offers  nothing  but 
(lead  figures  to  this  genius  who  animates  them  at  will.  By  this  act  he  at  once  exagerates 
his  figures  beyond  all  natural  life.  He  cares  not  whether  his  figures  remain  in  union  with 
our  senses,  or  whether  they  meet  us  like  creatures  of  another  world,  with  whom  we  have 
nothing  whatever  in  common.  He  is  content  to  dramatise  and  represent  his  thoughts,  to 
embody  his  exalted  ideas,  and  to  place  hissupersensuous  world  before  our  eyes.  He  paints 
creations  of  his  brain  in  which  the  sensations  take  no  pai't.  The  pathos  attributed  to  his 
pictures  lies  in  the  violent  exertion,  the  application  of  the  most  intense  power  which  was 
necessary  to  express  through  the  human  forms  a  superhuman  appearance. 

It  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  that  Michel  x\ngelo's,  this  great  anatomist's,  figures  should 
be  full  of  phv.siological  errors.  It  is  very  rarely  that  their  motions  act  in  concert.  He  brings 
into  play  mu.-icles  in  one  part  of  the  body  to  which  the  action  of  the  other  parts  in  the  living 
figure  would  certainly  respond.  He  shews  us,  for  instance,  the  back  of  a  figure  on  which 
every  muscle,  every  sinew  is  in  a  state  of  extreme  ten.<ion,  while  at  tlie  same  time  tiie  upper 
part  of  the  arm,  or  the  hips  and  calves  exhibit  fiaccidity  and  weakness.  Wliile,  however,  he 
represents  the  trunk  with  a  convulsive  action,  as  if  produced  by  galvanism,  he  depicts, 
perhaps,  the  intei'nal  agony  of  one  of  the  condemned,  who  shews  by  the  impotency  of  his 
limbs,  hi.s  hopelessnes,-^,  even  in  eternity,  of  ever  being  relieved  from  torture.  If  the  pain  in 
the  thorax  communicate  itself  sympathisingly  with  the  other  [larts  of  the  l)ody,  it  gave  but 
the  means  of  one  half  of  the  painter's  intention;  he  would  still  represent  both. 

Through  this  want  of  harmony  of  form  Angelo  is  inferior  to  his  model,  the  antique. 
In  Athens,  in  the  time  of  Phydias,  the  pictures  by  this  artist  would  have  been  looked  upon 
as  the  oftsprings  of  insanity.  In  their  physiological  impossibility  lies  the  bad  effect  which 
Michel  Angelo's  figures  manifested  upon  his  imitators,  who  could  not  appreciate  the  intention 
of  the  master.  Angelo  gives  us  the  form  of  an  athlete  of  twenty-five  years,  and  sets  upon  it 
the  head  of  an  aged  man — his  Moses.  What  a  contrast  of  the  Jewish  Jupiter-like  lawgiver, 
with  the  Zeus  of  Phidias!  Angelo  paints  (on  the  vaulting  of  the  ISixtina)  a  giantess  of  the 
northern  myth  with  limbs  like  one  of  the  Huns,  and  gives  her — of  course  on  an  outrageously 
enlarged  scale — the  head  and  the  expression  of  countenance  of  a  girl  ten  years  of  age: — 
the  Madonna. 

"Next  to  Michel  Angelo,  who  never  denied  his  despotic  nature,  stands  the  mild  Raphael 
Santi,  better  known  as  Sanzio. 

Raphael  was  born  in  the  year  14S3,  in  Urbino;  he  was  the  scholar  of  Pietro  Perugino. 
His  first  jjieces  were  quite  in  the  spirit  of  that  master.    The  ancient  zeal  for  religion  still 


TIIK    VnUilX,    JESfS,    AND    ST.    JOIIX.    AP'TEU     K'AI'llAKr,    SANZIO.  251 

existed  amongst  tlic  Uinl)rian.«,  but  had  already  liegun  to  find  that  secular  matters  could 
not  be  dispensed  with  longer.  The  believers  stand  no  more  at  an  unapproachaljlc  distance 
from  the  saints.  They  rather  occupy  a  |)lace  next  them  in  Perugino's  pictures,  of  which, 
from  the  prayerful,  upward  soiiring  of  their  feeling  they  seem  worthy.  The  secular  figures 
are  invested  with  an  exalted  character,  and  the  relations  of  the  happy  regions  of  heaven 
accept  the  loveliness  of  earth,  that  the  worshipping  proteges  may  advance  nearer.  Beauty 
of  fo.rm  alone  goes  for  nothing  with  the  Unibrians;  it  appears  only  as  the  sequel  of  the 
expression  of  character  and  perception.  A  fantastical  sporting  with  the  rhythmically  arranged 
actions  of  tlie  figures,  which  the  Florentines  loved,  the  Unilirians  were  not  acquainted  with. 
In  tliis  point  they  are  clumsy;  the  characteristic  expression  of  ideas  and  feelings  after 
whicli  they  strove,  prevents  them  from  making  use  of  the  ready-made  academical  forms, 
which  in  themselves  have  no  significance.  While  the  Florentines  were  striving  to  patch 
up  these  forms,  so  as  to  reach  a  general  characteristic,  expression,  the  Umbrians  took  tiie 
more  difficult  way  of  perfecting  their  unaffectedly  conceived  figures  to  an  ideal  harmony 
of  exterior. 

The  Florentines  found  no  difficult}-  in  representing  groups  of  figures,  which  were  bound 
to  each  other  by  an  external  motive.  The  Unibrians  were  directed  to  the  interior  connexion 
of  the  figures,  and  in  most  cases  they  succeeded  but  imperfectly  in  giving  an  appearance 
of  unity.  The  figures  are  generally  somewhat  isolated;  the  close  concentration  is  too 
frequently  wanting,  and  even  when  the  different  faces  of  a  group  express,  each  in  its 
peculiar  way,  a  profound  mental  tranquility,  still  the  general  effect  is  inharmonious  and 
unsatisfactory.  The  consecjuence  was  that  the  Umbrians,  as  much  as  possible,  limited  the 
number  of  their  figures. 

In  this,  certainly,  profound,  but  disjointed,  restrained  manner  of  representation,  Raphael 
appeared.  Its  nature  possessed  the  germs  of  the  highest  artistical  elevation;  it  needed  but 
a  first  rate  genius  to  cultivate  these  germs  till  they  shovdd  burst  into  blossom. 

The  pictures  by  Raphael,  in  his  early  days,  are  kept  quite  in  tiie  feeling  of  his  master 
Perugino,  but  there  is  a  more  refined  characteristic  and  a  bold  elevation  of  mind  discernible 
even  in  the  early  works  of  the  scholar.  Perugino's  pictures  for  the  most  part  are  furnished 
with  a  number  of  chance  traits,  for  which  he  has  to  thank  his  'natiu-al'  education.  From 
this  circumstance  he  is  awkward,  undefined,  and,  from  his  introduction  of  unnecessary  objects, 
the  effect  of  the  important  ones  suffers. 

Already  in  his  early  pieces,  which  bear  the  decided  stamp  of  his  peculiarity,  Raphael 
divested  them  of  these  disturbing  incidentals.  From  his  adherence  to  the  essential  only, 
he  succeeded  in  attaining  an  intrinsic  unity  of  form,  great  clearness,  and  power  of  expression. 
In  the  pictures  of  his  youthful  years,  a  delicacy  of  perception  prevails,  which  is  ever  retained 
even  in  his  most  exalted  works,  and  tends  to  shed  a  magic  over  them.  As  man,  it  is  the 
mightiness  of  thouglit,  supported  by  a  corresponding  power  of  imagination,  which  meets  us 
in  all  its  height  in  Raphael's  pictures. 

Our  space  will  not  permit  of  our  entering  upon  a  history  of  Raphael's  works.  We 
shall  therefore  confine  ourselves  to  w'hat  is  most  essential  in  this  brilliant  constellation, 
uniting  in  itself  "the  pride  and  joy  of  man.'' 

32* 


252  THE  ftALr.Eiii?:s  of  viknxa. 

Rajiliael,  in  whose  works  the  jxodlike  ray  liifhtens  tlie  hearts  of  men,  oasilv  discarded 
(he  fetters  which  impeded  his  soaring  genius.  If  any  artist  derived  greatness  from  his 
natural  powers,  it  was  Raphael.  Compared  with  Leonardo — the  schohir,  the  man  of  universal 
information-  Raphael  was  ignorant.  He  understood  a  little  Latin,  as  the  monks  used  to  teach 
it  to  the  schoolboys  for  the  superficial  knowledge  of  religious  writings,  and  was  accpiainted 
with  Dante  Alighieri's,  Petrarch's,  and  Boccaccio's  works,  and  he  highly  prized  the  poems 
of  his  friends,  Cardinal  Bemlio,  and  Ariosto.  He  knew  a  little  of  mathematics — but  his 
erudition  went  no  farther.  His  insight  touching  matters  of  art,  however,  was  clearer,  and 
his  judgment  more  infallible  than  that  of  the  learned  Leonardo. 

Raphael  was  not,  like  Michel  Angelo,  as  the  protege  of  a  prini?e,  educated  with  the 
greatest  heedfulness.  Already  at  an  early  age  he  was  obliged  to  emply  his  artistic  activity 
to  gain  a  maintenance,  and  to  rack  his  ideas  in  order  to  help,  in  a  half  mechanical  manner, 
his  stingy  master  on  his  pictures.  Notwithstanding,  Michel  Angelo  is  never  so  artistically 
refined  in  his  pictures  as  the  Urliiner,  and  if  the  former,  in  order  to  be  extraordinary, 
gesticulates  like  a  maniac,  Rajjhael  in  his  simplicity  is  infinitely  greater  than  his  rival,  who 
exhausts  himself  in  exaggerations. 

Leonardo  would  worry  himself  about  a  picture  for  years,  and  then  east  the  work 
completely  aside,  because  he  was  not  able  to  hit  off  the  figure  so  as  to  correspond  with  his 
ideas.  Quite  otherwise  with  Raphael;  in  the  same  moment  that  he  gave  birth  to  an  idea, 
the  form  followed.  Michel  Angelo  is  strikingly  poor  in  sentiment — Raphael  jiainted  only 
soul-breathing  forms.  Angelo  is  monotonous;  his  figures  are  not  essentially  different  from 
each  other;  this  stiff,  icy  Buonaroti  is  perceptible  in  all  of  them,  though  one  figure  may 
he  enthroned  in  the  glory  of  heaven,  and  the  other  turning  a  somersault  down  to  the 
sulphureous  pit  of  hell.  The  outward  being  prevails,  and  seeks  to  conceal  by  its  varied 
appearance  the  want  of  inward  properties,  discovering  an  impotency  of  fancy  in  giving  form 
to  his  thoughts.  Raphaels  fancy  creates  beings  full  of  mind  and  feeling — em])ty  figures 
find  no  I'oom  in  his  pictures;  for  the  ])ersonification  of  his  deep-felt  ideas  they  would  be 
superfluous,  and  Raphael  paints  only  what  is  essential  for  his  purpose.  If  the  mission  of 
jiainting  be,  through  the  representation  of  conceived  ideas,  to  set  soul  and  intellect  alike  in 
activity,  then,  Michel  Angelo  is  not  to  be  placed  on  a  par  with  Raphael. 

In  no  other  painter  is  the  inward  conception  by  means  of  the  eye  and  the  hand  so 
closely  joined  with  the  outward,  as  in  Raphael.  In  the  mass  of  the  most  heterogeneous 
objects  which  he  drew  into  the  circle  of  his  representation,  he,  with  the  most  wonderful 
decision,  at  once  finds  the  shortest  way  so  to  employ  his  materials  as  to  insure  the  clearest 
expression.  Raphael  does  not  grope  his  way  to  find  the  right  tone.  His  ideas  are  born 
clothed  with  the  most  suitable  form.  This  circumstance,  especially,  lends  to  the  designs  of 
Raphael  a  certainty  and  boldness  which  is  not  in  the  same  degree  possessed  b}'  any  one  of 
the  other  masters. 

We  cannot  here  follow  Raphael's  development  to  its  fullest  extent.  In  his  Madonna 
pictures,  howevei',  we  may  be  able  to  descry  a  scale  by  which  we  can  compare  the  e\cr 
increasing  freedom  at  which  the  unfolding  of  his  mental  powers  had  arrived.  Raphael  himself 
declared  that  his  "ideal"  was  embodied  in  his  Madonnas,  that  in  them  was  realized  the 
prototype  of  his  ai-tisticn1  conceptions,  in  which  his  thougths  and  his  feelings  were  united. 


TUK    VIUGIN,    JKSUS,    AND    ST.   JOHN,    AKTKK    KAl'IIAEL    SANZIO.  25."? 

R!i])Ii;icl's  earliest  Aladdiinas  arc  painted  (jiiite  after  the  .style  of  Perut;ino.  TFiey 
appi'ar  in  passive,  sdlemn  retirement.  In  the  small  pieturc  of  the  ^ladonna,  which  was 
executed  for  the  Countess  Alfani,  apjiears  just  .sufficient  outward  actibn  to  shew  the  feeling 
of  the  young  artist  for  graceful  disposition.  The  countenance  of  the  Virgin  exhihits  an 
extraordinary  repose;  it  would  seem  as  if  from  these  features  everything  had  been  erailicated 
which  could  indicate  the  least  disturbance  of  the  perfect  peace  of  the  soul. 

The  frame  of  mind,  which  in  this  picture  is  more  tender  than  spiritual,  is  strengthened 
in  Raphael's  next  piece  of  the  Madonna  by  the  introduction  of  landscape.  This  is  the 
Madonna  which  belonged  to  .Solly's  collection,  and  is  at  present  in  the  Museum  of  Berlin. 
With  the  firm  position  is  a  commencing  movement,  apjiertaining  only  to  the  moment.  The 
Virgin  clasps  the  little  foot  of  the  child  Jesus,  who  holds  in  his  hand  a  goldfinch. 

The  Madonna,  painted  by  Kaphael  for  the  Countess  Staffa,  apjiears  wandering  in  a 
spring  land.scape;  a  picture  of  great  softness,  with  the  gracious  expression  of  maiden  thought. 
Mary  is  reading  a  little  book  into  which  the  Child  also  looks;  they  are  each  occupied  only 
with  themselves  and  with  the  book;  their  thoughts  belong  to  a  sphere  which  the  spectator 
cannot  penetrate. 

The  Madonna  of  the  Arch-Duke's  shews  Raphael  on  the  boundaiy  line  of  Perugino's 
style  of  painting.  This  picture  no  longer  betrays  a  certain  sickly  element,  an  intention  to 
allude  symbolically,  through  actions  unimportant  in  themselves,  to  the  history  of  the  beatified 
Mother  and  her  Divine  Child.  It  is  the  maternal  care  exemj)lified  in  the  Virgin  that  lends  to 
her  countenance  an  expression  of  deep  feeling,  which  the  earlier  Madonnas  of  Raphael  do 
not  possess.  In  her  downward-looking  eye  lies  affection,  while  the  j\Iadonna  ])ictures  of  the 
older  masters  either  do  not  present  this  chain  of  feeling  between  Mother  and  .Son  at  all,  but 
the  two  figures  are  united  as  the  mere  representation  of  symbols,  or  are  limited  to  a  lady-like 
play  of  the  mother  with  the  child.  In  the  Mary  del  Granduca,  Raphael's  natural  turn  for 
beauty  of  appearance  is  very  evident.  The  keeping  of  the  picture  throughout  is  simple,  in 
many  respects  grand.  The  infant  Jesus  neither  precociously  stretches  out  his  fingers  in 
blessing  nor  does  he  look  unconsciously  on  vacancy,  like  most  of  the  infant  Christs  iiy 
Perugino,  nor  is  it  so  completely  a  helpless  suckling  like  that  which  Fra  Bartolomeo  loved 
to  portray.  Raphael's  infant  Christ  is  a  charming  boy  in  the  full  bloom  of  health,  a  priceless 
jewel  for  the  mother,  independently  of  all  spiritual  regards;  a  child  whose  world  is  the 
bosom  of  his  mother,  but  whose  eye  already  shews  the  fire  of  mental  energy  which  points  to 
god-like  deeds.  The  affectionate  alliance  between  Mother  and  Child  is  likewise  expressed  in 
another  picture  of  about  the  same  date,  in  which  the  Virgin  appears  leaning  on  a  low  wall 
while  she  holds  the  Child,  which  is  embracing  her,  in  her  arms. 

The  Madonna  del  Cardellino,  or  with  the  goldfinch,  belongs  to  the  period  of  Raphael's 
second  visit  to  Florence.  Mary  sits  in  a  landscape,  the  infant  Jesus  stands  on  the  ground, 
supported  by  the  Mother  and  leaning  on  her  knee,  while  the  infant  John  the  Baptist  reaches 
him  a  goldfinch. 

This  unforced  interweaving  of  a  spiritual  principle  into  the  J)lay  of  the  children — the 
allu.sion  by  the  bird  to  that  belonging  to  immortality,  by  which  both  children  are  United  — 
is  more  decidedly  shewn  in  "The  Virgin,  Jesus,  and  St.  John"  preserved  in  the  Belvedere 
Gallery. 


254  rilE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Mary  is  seated  in  the  fore-ground  of  a  hilly  landscape,  which  presents  the  distant- 
view  of  a  meadow,  dotted  with  trees;  on  a  stream  lies  a  small  town,  above  wiiich  rises  a 
mountain,  whose  rocky  formation  gives  the  rough  outlines  of  a  cross.  The  mother  is  supporting 
with  her  hands  the  infant  Jesus,  who  stands  on  the  ground  while  He  bends  forward  to  the 
kneeling  figure  of  the  infant  John,  and  grasps  a  reed  cross  which  the  latter  oifers  to  his 
Divine  playmate.  For  all  the  maternal  joy  of  Mary  there  is  something  of  a  painful  fore- 
boding in  her  smile.  The  outer  world  begins  to  intrude  itself  between  her  and  the  Child. 
A  silent  melancholy  comes  over  us  while  viewing  this  deeply  touching  jjicture.  The  radiance 
of  spring  in  nature,  as  well  as  on  the  countenance  of  the  mother  and  the  charming  figures 
of  the  two  children  -the  glittering  blossoms  which  are  to  be  sacrificed,  just  as  the  flowers  at 
their  feet  are  to  be  mowed  down  by  the  scythe  of  the  reaper! — This  picture  has  a  tinge  of 
the  Florentine  form. 

The  union  of  the  terrestrial  mystery  of  the  maternal,  and  the  celestial  origin  and 
mission  of  the  infant  Jesus,  was  represented  by  Kaj)hael  in  a  complete  series  of  Madonna 
pictures,  which,  in  a  truly  inexhaustible  way,  contain  the  same  subject-matter  from  other 
points  of  view.  With  "the  Virgin,  Jesus,  and  St.  John"  is  connected  "The  fair  Gardener,''  a 
Madonna  seated  in  a  flowery  meadow,  regarding  her  child,  who  is  standing  before  her  and 
looking  up  in  her  face.  John  is  kneeling  aside,  resting  on  a  little  cross.  The  ways  of  the 
two  boys  are  not  the  same. 

These  representations  have  exceeded  the  limits  of  the  purely  ecclesiastical,  inasmuch 
as,  besides  being  illustrative  of  religious  ideas,  they  seek  at  the  same  time  to  comprehend 
the  beauties  of  the  earthly.  The  purest  expression  of  ideal  feminine  nature,  a  lieauiing, 
humble,  devoted  maidenliness,  with  the  mysterious,  feelings  of  a  mother,  to  be  felt,  not 
expressed,  blend  into  each  other;  and  in  this  two-fold  existence  the  sublime  aspiration  and 
the  sacrificial  joy  of  a  martyr,  who  in  the  suff^erings  of  her  child  will  hereafter  be  wounded 
sevenfold — these  are  the  Madonnas  of  Rapiiael,  these  beings  full  of  terrestrial  charms  and 
spiritual  majesty,  belonging  to  both  worlds,  fascinating  our  hearts  by  their  enchanting 
beauty,  and  by  their  moral  greatness  bearing  them  away  to  a  Agher  sphere:  a  fragrant 
flower  of  earth — a  star  of  heaven. 

The  astonishing  inter-weaving  of  the  terrestrial  with  the  transcendental,  the  amalga- 
mation of  that  which  is  perceptible  by  the  sensitive  faculties  with  the  most  exalted  ideal 
signification,  is  delineated  in  the  Madonna  del  Pesce.  The  Virgin  is  seated  on  a  throne.  She 
raises  lightly  the  infant  Jesus  from  her  lap,  and  with  indescribable  grace  bends  somewhat 
sideways,  that  he  may  better  see  the  fish  brought  by  Saint  Peter,  who  is  here  represented 
as  a  youth.  The  future  Apostle  is  conducted  by  an  angel,  in  whose  look  and  mien  is  expressed 
admiring  devotion,  while  the  youthful  Peter,  dazzled  by  the  beauty  of  the  Mother  and  Child, 
timidly  approaches  them,  at  the  same  time  that  his  true,  clear  eye  is  trustfully  directed  to 
the  Redeemer.  The  expression  of  genuine  maternal  happiness,  the  innocent  delight  in  the 
darling  Child,  is  perha])s  in  none  of  Raphael's  ]\Iadoniia  jiictures  so  admirably  portrayed  as 
in  this.  The  infant  Jesus  in  the  Sixtin  picture  is  more  sublimely  conceived,  the  child  looks 
more  conscious  but  certainly  not  more  beautiful  than  that  in  the  Madonna  del  Pesce.  He 
jiossesses  a  remote  likeness  to  the  child  in  the  Madonna  della  Sedia:  the  expression,  however, 
is  much  more  animated.    St.  Jerome  is  kneelino-  on  the  side  with  a  book  in  his  hand.    Beside 


TIIK    VIKiUN,    JESrs,    AND    ST.    JOHN,    AFTER    RAPHAEI.    SANZIO.  255 

him  in  the  fore-o;roiiiul  apijcars  the  Hon's  heatl,  also  indicative  of  St.  Luke.  The  Saint  seems 
to  be  reading  tiie  words,  "I  will  malie  you  fishers  of  men!"  And  further,  "Thou  art  Peter, 
and  on  this  rock  will  I  build  ray  Church;  and  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  prevail  against  it."  ■ 
Instead  of  a  hook  we  see  a  ring  drawn  through  the  fishes  jaAvs:  the  fisherman's  ring  of  St.  Peter. 
How  the  young  Tobias,  that  altogether  insignificant  individual,  arrived  at  the  honour  of  being, 
to  this  day,  reputed  as  the  person  who  brought  the  fish  to  the  infant  Saviour,  is  difficult  to 
conjecture. — Without  entering  farther  upon  the  great  number  of  Madonnas  by  Kaphael, 
amongst  which  that  of  the  FoUgno,  the  "Pearl,"  and  the  Madonna  della  Sedia  have  gained 
the  greatest  celebrity,  we  will  turn  to  the  master-picture  with  which  Raphael  ended  his 
representations  of  the  holy  Virgin  and  her  Divine  Child. 

This  is  the  Madonna  of  St.  Sixtus.  The  Virgin  as  victress,  as  the  queen  of  heavea 
and  earth,  hovers  with  thousands  of  angels  in  her  train  in  the  glory  of  paradise.  All  earthly 
things  lie  low  beneath  her;  all  pains  are  overcome,  and  the  soul  has  soared  up  attired  in  the 
Divine  essence  of  the  sublunary  sphere — virtue,  mercy,  love.  Spiritualized,  raised  to  glory, 
this  Madonna  appears  with  a  spiritual  greatness  which  commands  veneration.  In  this  eye, 
which  seems  to  take  in  nothing,  but  is  directed  to  immeasurable  space,  lies  the  understanding 
of  the  mysteries  of  the  Redemption.  The  sublime  beauty,  the  blissful  mildness  in  the 
appearance  of  the  Madonna,  melts  into  a  solemn  earnestness.  This  queen  would  indeed  be 
unapproachable  without  the  interposition  of  tlie  adoring  saints — St.  Sixtus  and  St.  Barbai'a 
the  martyr,  who  are  placed  left  and  right  in  the  picture.  The  infant  Jesus,  in  the  arms 
of  the  Mother  favoured  by  God,  is  not  only  of  most  extraordinary  beauty;  his  countenance 
literally  glows  with  mind;  his  eyes  are  wonderful  in  their  glance,  which  seems  to  penetrate 
the  past  and  future,  which  sees  the  cross  planted  on  Golgatha,  as  the  end  of  human  days 
and  the  Last  Judgment. 

Here  all  that  is  called  syniliol  is  unnecessary.  Art  has  embodied  the  highest 
ecclesiastical  ideas  in  the  noblest  appearance  of  the  human  form:  it  has  brought  home  to 
our  senses  the  idea  of  the  Mother  of  Grace  and  her  Divine  Son;  and  has  touched  a  chord 
in  our  deepest  feelings,  a  devotional  strain  worthy  of  the  sublime  idea  represented. 

Through  the  ideas  creating  forms,  and  in  the  one  preserving  the  precise  proportion 
of  the  others,  gifted  with  the  most  elevated  fiights  of  conception,  and  governing  his  gigantic 
power  of  representation  with  a  fine  feeling  for  a  noble  simplicity  and  harmony,  thus,  also, 
does  Raphael  appear  in  his  fresco  paintings.  The  Stanze  and  the  T.ogijie  in  the  Vatican  will 
long  perpetuate  his  fame,  though  not  a  trace  remain  of  those  pieces  which  he  painted  to 
decorate  its  walls. 

The  feelings  and  the  ideas  of  Raphael  are  always  equally  balanced.  He  therefore 
takes  his  place  between  Michel  Angelo  and  Tizian:  the  Florentine  is  carried  away  by  the 
•overwhelming  idea,  the  Venetian  represents  the  feeling  at  the  cost  of  the  idea. 

In  the  Eternal  City  Raphael,  by  his  art,  has  created  a  new  Rome,  and  when  this 
prince  of  Roman  painters  died  on  the  6th  of  April,  1520,  on  his  coffin  might  justly  have  been 
inscribed,  Ite,  actum  est!  For  in  Raphael  art  in  Rome  acquired  a  blossom,  that  will  scarcely 
£ver  again  burst  forth  to  radiate  the  art  of  painting  in  Italy. 


256  THE    GALLEIUES    OF    VIENNA. 


ST.    K  A  T  H  E  R  I  N  E, 


T    I    Z    I    A    N. 


Two  attractive  female  figures  belong  to  Alexandria,  the  seat  of  learning  anil  the 
metropolis  of  Egypt — Hypatia  tlie  martyr  to  knowledge,  and  St.  Katherine,  to  Christianity. 
In  all  probability  the  latter  was  a  descendant  of  the  Royal  house  of  Ptolemy.  Katherine's 
conversion  to  Christianity  seems  to  have  caused  great  connnotion  throughout  Alexandria. 
The  Emperor  Maxentius  and  his  consort  Faustina  held  Katherine  of  so  much  importance 
that  they  spared  no  efforts  in  their  endeavours  to  induce  her  to  recant,  in  order  to  quell 
the  excitement  created  by  the  step  she  had  taken. 

The  most  learned  philosophers  of  the  Academy  were  instructed  to  refute  the  hateful 
doctrine  promulgated  by  Katherine.  The  maiden,  acting  under  strong  conviction,  defended 
her  cause  in  the  presence  of  fifty  professors,  and  with  such  victorious  success  that  many 
of  them,  the  perverse  tribune  Trebonius  amongst  the  number,  and  at  length  the  Empress 
Faustina  herself,  became  proselytes  to  the  religion  of  the  Cross. 

In  the  year  327,  St.  Katherine  was  to  be  offered  as  a  sacrifice  on  a  heathen  altar. 
She  was  condemned  to  be  bound  on  a  spikcil  wheel.  But  as  soon  the  wiieel,  which 
was  to  have  torn  and  crushed  her,  touched  her  body,  the  instrument  of  torture,  broke 
in  two  and  the  saint  remained  uninjured;  but,  as  they  were  determined  to  take  her  life, 
they  at  once  subjected  her  to  decapitation.  Her  corpse  was  borne  away  by  angels  to 
Blount  Sinai. 

Tizian  has  represented  "St.  Katherine"  as  a  figiu-e  in  the  fullest  bloom  of  corporeal 
beauty.  There  is  majesty  in  her  form,  as  well  as  in  her  calm,  conscious  look,  the  sign 
of  high  intellectual  endowment.  The  mere  charm  of  voluptuousness,  the  general  characteristic 
of  Tizian's  female  figures,  is  less  prominent  in  this  picture  of  "St.  Katherine." 


TiAZ^ajt,^ 


WTrau^sc 


S^  (aaii^zd^^^z^:      .^^^.i^ipf^ei^o^J^^^^^iiz., 


■iC:^-a^. 


.  YerlaJ  dXnglisclien  Kunalanatalt  YAHPayr, 


M'     MAUCAK'in',    AI'Ti:H     liAI'llAKI,    SANZll).  25 


S  T.    ill  A  R  (i  A  i{  K  T, 


RAPHAEL    SANZIO. 


b 


"  riic  I'l'Mi'l,"  a  tide  corresponding  ti)  ilic  name  St.  Margaret,  is  represented  as  heiiig 
throatonod  liy  tlio  monsters  of  the  deep.  For  protection  against  tlie  dragon,  tlie  maiden  lias 
nothing  Imt  a  fragile  crucifix  which  she  holds  in  her  hand.  Tlie  monster  is  ahout  to  attack 
the  anchoress;  hut  frightened  and  subdued  at  the  sight  of  the  crucifix,  which  overpowers  the 
gates  of  hell,  he  relinquishes  hi.s  intention  on  the  holy  prey. 

The  picture  of  St.  Margaret  with  the  dragon  contains  many  features  not  usually 
Inund  in  ilic  works  of  this  great  master.  We  more  particularly  instance  the  draping,  which 
i)Ordei's  greatly  on  the  Florentine.  The  dress  adheres  inelegantly  to  tiie  form  of  the  figure. 
This  is  one  of  the  few  exceptions  in  Kaphael's  style  of  drapery,  we  know  of  none  but  in 
several  female  figures  in  "The  death  of  Ananias"  and  in  "The  Transfiguration."  As  a 
general  rule  Raphael's  draperies  are  somewhat  profuse,  and  hang  in  broad  folds.  The 
successors  and  imitators  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  practised  a  more  plastic  mannerism  in 
the  arrangement  of  their  draperies  than  is  displayed  in  this  slovenly  drawn  garment  of 
St.  Margaret's.  The  tall  figure,  too,  with  the  long  fleshy  arms  strongly  reminds  us  of  the 
Florentine  school  of  painting. 

This  departure  from  his  general  style  both  of  figure  and  draping  must  either  be 
looked  upon  as  a  singular  anomaly,  or  we  must  arrive  at  the  conclusion — which  is  very 
feasible — that  this  is  one  of  Raphael's  early  productions,  before  he  abandoned  the  style  of  his 
master  Perugino,  and  formed  a  .style  for  himself  from  which  he  never  afterwards  deviated. 


I)  A  N  A  E, 


T  I  Z  1  A  N. 


The  story  of  lo,  Leda,  and  Daniic  has  otten  afforded  scope  for  painters  to  display 
the  highest  expression  of  sensual  excitement  by  means  of  their  art.  This  representation  of 
corporeal,  refined  sensibility  gains  a  noble  and  charming  efl'ect  from  its  motive  being  veiled 
through  the  medium  of  poesie.  We  have  a  celebrated  In  liy  Correggio,  a — but  unfortunately 
lost — Leda  by  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  and  several  Daniies  by  Tizian,  and  one  too  of  extraordinary- 
beauty  by  Van  Dyck. 

Oalleries  of  Vieiiii.<».  33 


258  THE    GALLEUIES    OK    \1KNNA.       . 

Tizian  loved  td  place  his  Ajjliroditcs  and  naked  nymphs  in  a  reclining  position.  We 
may  refer  to  his  \'enu8  in  Florence,  his  Venus  crowned  with  roses,  in  Dresden,  and  the 
still  moi-c  heaiitifiil  figure  of  Venus  with  the  diadem,  reposing  alone  in  a  quiet  landscape, 
also  in  the  Dresden  fiallery.  In  choosing  this  position  he  found  the  most  natural  means 
of  bringing  his  flesh  tints  in  immediate  contact  with  the  powerful  surrounding  colours,  which 
with  an  ujiright  figure—  considering  the  height — is  not  so  easy  of  achievement. 

The  two  most  celelirated  Daniies  by  Tizian  are  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery,  and  in  the 
Royal  Collection  in  Najiles.  There  arc  various  ojiinions  as  to  which  is  the  most  beautiful 
of  these  two  pictures.  The  Neapolitan  picture,  from  its  having  been  seriously  injured  in 
several  parts,  necessarily  suffers  in  ])oint  of  value  when  compared  with  that  in  the  Belvedere 
(xallery. 

The  forms  oi'  the  l^aniic  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery  are  modelled  more  in  detail  than 
was  Tizian"s  usual  custom.  The  whole  appearance  is  not  so  softly  fleshy  as  many  other 
female  figures  liy  the  hand  of  this  master:  in  this  picture  there  is  throughout  a  greater 
firmness,  an  elastic  solidity; — the  most  intense  expression  of  the  most  jiassionatc  hinging  of 
love.  This  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  those  fair  Venetian  women  who  did  not  disdain 
to  have  their  charms  innnortalizeil  by  the  pencil  of  Tizian. 

As  a  general  rule,  Tizian  troubled  himself  very  little  whether  his  figures  corresponded 
exactly  \\ ith  the  story  which  they  were  intended  to  represent.  His  Daniies  have  the  advantage 
that  the  beholder  the  moment  he  sees  them,  has  r,o  difficulty,  in  calling  to  mind  the  story 
of  the  King's  daughter. 

Danae  was  the  daughter  of  Acrisiiis,  King  of  Argos,  and  his  consort  Eurydice.  To 
the  King  an  oracle  foretold  that  his  life  would  be  taken  by  a  son  of  Danae.  Acrisius  there- 
fore confined  his  daughter  in  a  brazen,  inaccessible  tower.  Zeus  caught  a  glance  of  the  fair 
one  from  the  ]iiiiuacle  of  the  tower,  and  approached  her  in  the  form  of  a  golden  rain.  Danae 
gave  birth  to  a  son,  who,  with  his  mother,  was  placed  by  Acrisius  in  a  boat  and  left  to  the 
mercy  of  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

The  wind  and  waves,  however,  drove  the  bark  towards  the  island  of  Seriphus  where 
Daniie  was  rescued  from  her  perilous  situation  by  some  fishermen  who  conducted  her  to 
King  Polydectes.  Dictys,  the  brother  of  the  King,  Itrought  uj)  the  boy  and  called  him 
Perseus.  But  Polydectes  became  enamoured  of  Daniie  and  sought  to  get  rid  of  Perseus  for 
whom  he  had  a  deeply  rooted  dislike.  The  King,  in  consecpience  of  this,  commanded 
Perseus  to  procure  him  the  head  of  the  mortal  Gorgon,  Medusa,  that  this  trophy  might 
be  paraded  at  the  wedding  of  Polydectes  and  Hippodamia.  Perseus  effected  his  dangerous 
mission,  returned  contrary  to  all  exi)ectation,  left  his  mother  and  his  treacherous  host  and 
went  back  again  to  Argos.  Here  he  unintentiontdly  killed  Acrisius,  whereby  the  oracle 
was  fulfilled.  Some  writers  declare  that  the  brother  of  Acrisius,  Proetus,  by  means  of  a 
bribe  of  gold,  opened  the  brazen  tower  in  which  Danae  was  confined,  and  that  he  was  the 
father  of  Perseus. 

Virgil  mentions  that  Daniie  appeared,  in  company  with  many  fugitives  from  Argos, 
in  Itah ,  and  founded  the  citv  of  Ardea. 


FrdnM. 


•  avaitii  ft  Dr 


JiEKODiAs    DAt  (iiiii;i{.   AiTi:!;    ij;ii\AWiMi    DA   \[.\(is   sciiiiiir  259 


HERODIAS'  DAliaiTEH. 


LEONARDO    DA  VINCI'S   SCHOOL 

A  sail  i'atality  pursued  tlic  works  oi'  Leonardo  ila  Vinci,  wlio  is  uudoubteilly  the 
most  universal  genius  that  appears  in  tiie  history  of  painting.  To  the  lover  of  art,  the  history 
of  this  master  is  truly  afflicting,  for  tiie  almost  incvitahle  conclusion  of  the  enthusiastic 
descriptions  of  Da  Vinci's  works  is  that  ljy  some  uiiscliance  they  went  to  rack  and  ruin. 
We  may  with  certainty  assume  that  the  greater  number  of  pictures  preserved  in  many  oi' 
the  galleries  of  Upper  Italy,  in  (lermany,  and  especially  in  England,  which  jjass  luider 
Da  Vinci's  name,  arc  not  genuine.  More  reliance  may  be  jilaccil  in  the  genuineness  of  the 
pictures  in  Spain  which  are  preserved  as  "Da  Vincis." 

Of  this  painter's  earlier  productions  very  few  of  undoubted  authenticity  are  in  existence 
beyond  the  C'liiniu'ra,  a  monster,  the  so-called  shield  painted  on  tig-tree  wood  (riotellu  di 
ixco);  a  jMagdalen  in  the  Pitti  Palace;  JVIadonnas  in  the  Borgese  and  Giiistiniani  palaces; 
an  Infant  with  a  string  of  pearls  in  an  excessively  ornamented  cradle,  in  the  Cionfaloniere 
palace  at  Bologna;  Leonardo's  mistress — Mona  Lisa — in  the  Louvre;  an  Adoration  of  the 
Three  Kings;  and  a  Head  of  Medusa.  In  spite  of  the  improbability,  connoisseurs  afl^ect  to 
discover  in  the  charming  picture  of  Mona  Lisa  the  work  of  another  hand  than  that  of  Leonardo. 

Leonardo's  colossal  figure  of  Francesco  Sforza,  Duke  of  ^lilan,  on  horseback,  a 
perfect  master-piece,  was  destroyed  by  the  French  in  the  siege  of  Milan.  Another  grand 
work,  a  large  cartoon,  in  which  Leonardo  entered  the  lists  with  Michel  Angelo,  is  likewise 
lost.  Only  one  splendid  group  of  troopers,  called  "The  Fight  for  the  Standard,"  has  been 
handed  down  to  us  by  copies. 

The  chief  work  by  this  master  which  jtlaced  him  on  an  eqiudity  with  the  four  painters 
of  the  first  class,  Michel  Angelo,  Raphael,  Durer,  and  Tiziau,  is  "The  Last  Supper."  The 
picture  is  on  the  wall  of  the  refectory  in  the  monastery  of  St.  ^laria  dellc  Grazie  in  Milan. 
From  his  youth  to  his  latest  years,  Leonardo  was  fond  of  experimenting  in  the  technical 
treatment  of  his  pictures;  to  this  cause  is  to  be  attributed  the  bad  conservation  of  this 
picture.  Leonardo  painted  it  in  oil-colours  over  the  plaster.  Inundations,  re-touches  by 
unskilful  hands,  and,  at  length,  the  conversion  of  the  refectory  into  a  stable — which  piece 
of  vandalisin,  contrary  to  the  orders  of  General  Bonaparte,  was  committed  by  the  French  in 
1796 — reduced  the  original  of  the  innumerable  copies  to  a  wretched  state  of  ruin.  Fortunately 
enough  the  cartoons  for  the  heads,  and  the  original  drawing  of  the  whole  composition  have 
been  preserved. 

To  the  works  of  this  great  master  which  lay  claim  to  l>c  genuine  may  be  added  the 
following:  "St.  Anna,  the  Madonna  and  Infant" — the  Virgin  sits  in  her  mother's  lap,  the 
Infant  Jesus  is  riding  on  a  lamb — in  cartoon  in  London;  a  "Caritas,'"  originally  a  Leda,  in 
the  Hague;  the  portrait  of  Lucretia  C'rivelli,  a  favourite  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  in  the  Louvre, 
under  the  title  of  "la  belle  ferroniere;"  a  Madonna-piece  in  the  St.  Onofrio  monastery  in 
Kome;  "Modesty  and  Vanity''  in  the  Sciarra  palace  in  Rome. 

.■S3» 


260  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA.  , 

Leonardo's  pictures,  painted  at  the  different  periods  of  hia  long  life,  are  by  no  means 
so  varied  in  their  style,  as  is  usually  ohsen'cd  in  the  works  of  most  other  artists  who  have 
devoted  a  long  series  of  years  to  their  profession.  In  his  pictures  Leonardo  keeps  up  a 
decided,  irresistible  fondness  for  the  remains  of  the  old  Florentine  type  of  physiognomy, 
borrowed,  originally,  from  the  Byzantine  painting,  and  quickened  by  Giotto — and  which 
the  sculptor  Lorenzo  Ghiberti  tried  to  bring  into  harmony  with  the  models  of  antiquity. 
Leonardo's  figures,  when  he  represents  nobility,  remain  always  strikingly  tall,  the  faces  are 
long  and  narrow,  the  nose  small  and  straight,  thought  very  finely  modelled;  whereas  the 
upper  lip  is  short,  the  mouth  impracticably  small,  and  the  chin  very  strongly  developed. 

Leonardo,  who  betrayed  an  irresistible  impulse  to  draw  into  the  circle  of  his 
representations  the  whole  world  of  vision,  displayed  a  great  profusion  of  characteristic 
forms.  He  is  not  content  with  genre-painting,  but  he  goes  even  into  carricature,  in  fact  he 
perpetrates  monstrosities.  When  he  appears  thus  his  aim  is  not  so  much  to  excite  the 
feelings,  as  to  awake  a  bold,  cheerful,  refreshing  play  of  the  mind.  He  amuses  himself  and 
his  beholders  while  lie  conforms  directly  to  nature,  or  he  evidently  intends  to  teach  through 
the  excessive  correctness  of  the  representation,  as  is  the  case  in  his  numerous  anatomical 
pictures. 

The  ideal,  the  animated  in  Leonardo  stand  apart,  and  are  rarely  mixed  up  with  the 
manner  of  representation  which  this  master  held  to  belong  to  the  genre.  We  may  mention 
one  of  the  chief  pictures  by  this  painter  in  which  the  genre  style  is  especially  kept,  viz., 
"The  Fight  for  the  Standard",  or  rather  "The  Battle  of  Anghiari."  In  this  genre  style 
of  representation  Leonardo  adheres  to  nature,  works  with  great  accuracy,  endeavouring  to 
do  justice  to  his  feeling  for.  beauty  by  harmonious  arrangement  and  variety  of  bearing. 
The  expression  in  the  countenances  here  is  always  his  weakest  side.  It  requires  a  very 
practised  eye  to  recognise  the  i)ainter  of  the  skirmish,  or  the  procession  of  Neptune  in  his 
pictures  of  saints.  The  principle  of  reality  which  appears  in  Leonardo's  genre-pictures,  is,  at 
the  same  time,  of  essential  importance  in  his  productions  bearing  the  highest  rank,  to  which, 
also,  belong  several  portraits. 

It  is  beyond  (juestion,  that  with  respect  to  beauty  of  form  Leonardo  had  adopted  one 
fixed  pattern,  w'hich  was  not  grounded  on  the  contemplation  of  nature — or  as  with  Raphael, 
in  the  disposition  of  the  mind — but  rested  on  artificial  models.  It  is  a  combination  of  the 
Byzantine  and  the  antique:  this  supplies  the  ideal  physiognomy  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  In 
the  heads  by  this  painter,  the  antique  is  not  rendered  so  prominent  as  to  eflFace  the  sweet, 
dreamy  expression  of  certain  standing  Byzantine  forms. 

This  superficially  conceived  ideal  of  Leonardo's  is  now  and  then  perceptible,  even, 
in  his  portraits — particularly  in  his  female  heads.  He  introduces  natural  traits  into  his  ideal 
heads;  he  undoubtedly  achieves  the  likness  to  his  original;  still  it  is  not  the  true  picture 
of  nature,  but  subordinated  to  the  painter's  idea  of  beauty.  His  Madonna,  his  Mona  Lisa, 
Beatrice,  Lucretia,  possess  an  undeniable  family-likeness,  not,  Hke  Perugino  and  Raphael  in 
expression  alone,  hut  in  the  formation  and  character  of  the  heads.  Another  Florentine, 
Andrea  del  Sarto,  painted  in  a  manner  quite  the  reverse:  his  Madonna  faces,  however  they 
may  differ  from  each  other,  have  a  natural  primitive  form,  borrowed  from  the  features  of 
his  wife,  Guido  Reni,  also,  firmly  adhered  to  the  antique,  and  gave  it  a  natural  expression. 


IlKKODIAS'    I)AU(;HT1:K,    AKTKK     LKflNAKDIi    DA    MNCIS    St'HOOI..  2fil 

It  will  not  be  (lis|)iiteil,  that  Leonardo  <la  Vinci"."  manner  of  ie|)rc.-entation  nni.-t 
have  been  attended  with  hin(h-ances,  wliioh  pre\ented  lii;;  giving  full  jjlay  to  the  idea  which 
he  intended  to  convey  into  the  pictm-e.  In  the  endcavonr  to  hannonizc  his  ideal  form.* 
with  his  intentions  in  the  way  of  treating  and  expressing  them,  lay  the  greatest  difficulty  for 
the  painter  in  satisfying  himself  with  his  work.  Hence  it  is  that  we  so  often  find  the 
master  conceiving  a  distaste  to  his  most  splendid  ])ieces,  and  turn  from  them  in  disgust.  He 
often  tried  to  conquer  this  discord  working  in  his  mind,  or  rather  the  two-fold  nature  of  his 
works,  by  changing  his  technical  method.  Whatever  experiments  he  made,  however  he  may 
have  strained  every  nerve  in  inventing  a  course  new  and  unheard  of  in  the  technicalities 
of  painting,  it  was  not  in  his  power  to  unite  the  two  conflicting  plans  so  as  to  produce  one 
harmonious  whole. 

In  one  picture  only  has  he  succeeded  in  the  union  of  the  ideal — and  specially  hw 
ideal — with  nature  and  her  inspiration — in  hi.s  picture  of  The  Lords  Supper.  In  this  piece 
is  combined  the  most  exalted  artistical  representation  of  nobility  of  form,  with  a  truth  to 
nature,  which  is  not  a  mere  copy  of  nature,  but  a  striking  characteristic  of  a  spiritedly 
conceived  individuality.  It  is  very  characteristic  of  Leonardo,  that,  even  in  this  picture,  there 
is  a  head  which  shews  the  insoluble  dilemma  of  the  artist— the  head  of  Christ.  Do  what 
he  would  with  this  head,  Leonardo  still  came  back  to  the  old  ideal  form.  His  Christ  is  an 
antiqiu'  ennobled  Byzantine  without  truthful  individuality — the  most  unsatisfactory  head  in 
the  whole  pictiu'e,  although  it  is  the  best  head  of  Christ  that  the  Italians  have  to  shew. 

The  similarity  and  the  contrariety  between  Leonardo  and  Albrecht  Dlirer  here  are  too 
strikingly  palpable  for  us  to  pass  them  over  unnoticed.  As  Leonardo  in  one  single  picture,  The 
Lord's  Supper,  raises  himself  to  his  full  glorious  freedom,  divested  of  all  mannerism,  and 
comes  forward  in  all  his  greatness — so  does  Albrecht  Diircr  in  his  picture  of  the  foiu" 
Apostles,  called  "The  four  Temperaments."  These  two  painters  have  each  produced  but 
one  pictiU'C  which  gives  them  an  indisputable  right  to  the  first  rank  amongst  the  |)ainters 
of  all  periods.  The  essential  part  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci  is  generally  the  outward  forinj 
derived  from  artistic  prototypes;  with  Albrecht  Diirer  it  is  the  copy  of  reality.  The  Italian 
master  introduced  an  imitation  of  natural  traits  in  his  typical  forms,  to  give  them  life  and 
character;  while  the  German  painter  chose  a  singularly  mystical  clement  to  raise  his 
paintings  from  life  to  more  elevated,  intellectual  importance — till  both  advanced  so  far  as 
to  produce  pictures,  painted  "not  only  in  sjiirit  but  in  truth.'" 

Were  it  necessary  to  bring  forward  special  jwoof  that  the  ideal  manner  of  Leonardo 
coidd  be  imitated  without  too  much  difficulty,  we  need  only  mention  the  numerous  scholars 
of  this  master,  who  were  quite  able  to  paint  after  his  style.  It  was  a  great  school  when 
Leonardo,  at  the  head,  worked  in  Milan.  The  value  of  the  performance  of  even  the  best 
of  these  scholars  appears,  by  the  side  of  their  master,  very  little;  for  there  was  not  one 
of  them  who  could  have  found  a  new  way  in  art.  On  the  contrary,  many  a  one  of  these 
scholars  produced  co])ies  from  the  pictures  of  this  master  which,  were  it  not  for  these 
imitations,  would  have  been  wholly  lost  to  us.  We  name  here  C'esaro  da  Sesto;  (iian  Antonio 
Boltraffio;  Francesco  Melzi;  Andrea  Salaino,  a  favorite  scholar  of  Leonardo's;  Bernardino 
Fassolo,  and  Gaudenzio  Vinci — both  excellent  imitators  of  their  master;  —Marco  d'Oggiona, 
Girolamo  Alibrando,  t^c. 


262  THE    CiALLEKlES    ill-'    VIENNA. 

Tlie  pictures  of  another  follower  of  Da  Vinci's,  Leonardo  Luini,  are  more  frequently 
met  with  than  the  works  of  these  scholars.  This  imitator  produced  many  pieces  which  long 
passed  for  Da  Vinci's.  Luini  painted  much  after  Lcf>nardo's  cartoons,  hut  knew  how  to 
>vork  independently  of  his  original. 

In  all  probability  it  was  this  Luini  who  painted  "The  Daughter  of  Hcrodias  with 
the  Head  of  John  the  Baptist,''  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery.  A  similar  picture,  proved  to  have 
been  by  Luini's  hand,  is  in  the  gallery  of  the  Tribune  in  Florence. 


(^  I  R  L     B  A  T  II  1  N  G, 


AUGUST     RIEDEL. 


This  painter  was  born  in  Baireuth  in  the  year  1800.  Although  he  often  attempted 
historical  subjects  August  Riedel  can  only  be  called  a  genre-painter.  He  is,  however,  able  to 
invest  his  works  with  an  importance  which  gives  them  a  claim  to  a  place  by  the  side  of 
historical  pictures.  He  is  the  German  painter  wlio  comes,  perhaps,  in  closest  contact  with  the 
Great  Master  of  the  genre,  Leopold  Robert.  iVlthough  Riedel,  under  the  immediate  direction 
of  Von  Tjangcr  in  Munich,  began  by  producing  pieces  from  the  sacred  writings  (1823) — 
still,  i'rom  the  peculiar  manner  of  representation,  his  pictures  lean  to  the  portrait  style. 
Owing  to  his  portrait  painting  he  turned  from  the  cold  theoretic  element  which,  in  spite 
of  the  brilliant  colouring,  prevailed  in  his  early  pictures,  and  by  degrees  made  himself  master 
in  the  representation  of  the  varied  phases  in  real  life. 

During  his  first  residence  in  Florence  and  Rome,  in  the  year  1829,  Riedel  almost 
exclusively  confined  himself  to  painting  the  portraits  of  women,  the  greatest  part  of  them 
from  the  common  people.  These  pictures  are  cleverly  and  charmingly  conceived;  great  vivacity 
is  disjilayed  in  the  countenances,  the  colouring  is  exquisite,  and  their  really  picturesque 
treatment  gives  them  an  appearance  of  private  pictures. 

The  painters  activity  suffered  a  .short  interruption,  owing  to  Von  Langer  calling  him 
to  Munich  in  order  to  assist  in  finishing  the  paintings  in  the  palace  of  Duke  Maximilian. 
Riedel  then  went  back  to  Italy.  One  of  his  first  pictures  was  composed  from  one  of  his 
earlier  portraits  before  mentioned,  "fiirl  with  a  Tambourine,"'  musingly  observing  a  jjair 
of  billing  doves. 

Still  more  known  than  this  most  attractive  piece  is  Riedel's  "Neapolitan  Fisherman's 
Family  on  the  Beech."  The  brawny  fisherman  sings  to  the  mandoline,  while  his  pretty 
wife  sits  partly  recumbent  on  the  ground,  with  her  hands  folded  over  her  knees,  her 
mind  engaged  by  the  strains  of  the  music.  His  little  daughter  listens  to  it  with  devotion. 
This  picture  has  often  been  repeated  by  Riedel,  and  has  been  twice  lithographed  on  a  large 
scale    by    Bodmer    and    by   Fischer.     Riedel's   Fisherman's  Family   was    the    prototype    of 


UHied/sl/i^ 


9^,/-, 


.^aa»^^a^..0^i^^'f>Zi^ui^ 


Verla^  d.EnJJiEi-neii  unuatanstal' ■'  *  "'" 


t'?.,,A  sc 


^^^^4ye^?7.-a-a!^e^ 


■jrliO  a  tnODochtn  ftunsianmaitvAH  h'ayne,  Leip'Ai(>  tt.  ut  e.=  v 


TiiK  si:i!i:nadi:,  aktick   v.   riTNi:i;.  26:i 

iinmni(M';iI)le  siiniliu'  coinpositions  l)y  young'  artists.  There  wns  a  time  wlieii  tlie  exliihitioii- 
were  imiiulnled  with  these  pseiido-niarine  pieees. 

"Tiie  (iirl  hathinn"  j)roves  Kieilcrs  ability  in  |iiirtrayinff  tlu'  nude.  Tiic  loeal  tone 
of  tlie  Hesli  is  warm  and  deHcate,  the  liglit  lirilliant;  tiie  forms  iire  noMe,  line,  here  and 
there,  perhajjs,  somewhat  too  strongly  defined,  lliedels  ".rudith,"  a  tiiree  (|narter  ligure  in 
life  size,  made  a  sensation.  This  picture,  as  a  whole,  is  more  ])leasing  than  powerful.  The 
royal  figure  of  the  heroine  is  to  be  considered  independently  of  the  action  of  the  piece. 
When  we  call  to  mind  the  deed  which  tiirs  great  woman  had  but  a  moment  before  committed, 
the  energy  of  expression — whicii  we  hold  to  be  in  the  highest  degree  exaggerated  in  tiie 
"Judith"  of  Horace  Vernct — cannot  l)e  received  as  sufficiently  striking. 

Rieders  "Medea,"  a  gorgeously  ornamented  woman  with  the  weapon  of  death  in  her 
hand,  appears  more  under  the  influence  of  the  action.  Here  the  form  is  raised  to  the  pure 
antique;  notwithstanding  the  glow  of  life,  the  pathos  is  feeble.  Neither  of  these  pictures  can 
be  ranked  above  the  genre.  One  of  tlie  best  pictures  by  Kiedel  is  the  I'rince's  Daughter, 
from  "Sakontala."  The  maiden  is  just  preparing  to  descend  into  the  rippling,  cooling 
woodland  spring.  This  seems  to  be  one  of  those  pieces  which  the  master  p;iinted  soon  after 
his  return  to  Italy. 


THE    8  E  K  E  N  A  D  E, 


AFTER 

F.     P  1  T  N  E  R. 


Pitner,  like  many  of  tlie  modern  Austrian  painters,  is  very  happy  in  tiie  effective 
touches  of  sentiment  which  he  throws  into  his  ])ictures.  "The  Serenade"  possesses  a  strongly 
marked  character  which  at  once  makes  a  lasting  iniitression  upon  the  beholder.  Figures,  like 
that  represented  in  the  picture,  with  their  mandolines,  singing  a  soft  lay  to  their  mistress  in 
the  evenin"'  hour  on  the  canals  of  Venice,  are  no  longer  to  be  seen — still,  we  have  but  to 
cast  a  glance  on  this  picture  to  be  made  fully  sensible  of  the  effect  in  Venice,  when  the  sun 
has  sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  the  moons  faint  beams  begin  to  struggle  with  the  mists 
rising  from  the  I.<agoon.    The  lights  in  this  ])icture  are  skilfully  and  effectively  managed. 

Contemplating  Pitner's  "Serenade"  we  remember  one  of  the  most  sti-iking  episodes 
of  the  liistory  of  Old  Venice,  connected  with  the  name  of  Bianca  C'apello.  Like  the  damsel 
who  ajipcars  on  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony,  fair  Bianca  listened  to  tlie  song  of  podr 
Bonavcntura.  The  young  lover  had  no  presentiment  that  his  tender  tune  slmuld  be  his 
sentence  to  die,  and  for  his  mistress  the  signal  to  choose  a  way  leading  ultimately  to  the 
I)ii(\il  crown  of  Tuscan V. 


264  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


T  ][  E     G  1  A  0  U  R, 


DE      KEYSEB. 

The  Giaour  is  incontestably  the  luightiest  sha])e  which  the  demoniac  comhatant  in  the 
regions  of  Psyche,  the  genius  of  Lord  Byron,  has  immortalized.  The  visionary  Manfred, 
whom  tlie  Poet,  notwitlistanding  all  ironical  anomalies,  held  as  his  own  reflected  image — 
a  hypochondriacal  Faust  indefatigable  in  demonstrating  his  own  impotence — is  by  no 
means  a  match  for  the  Giaour.  In  this  heroic  figure  bursts  forth  into  flame  all  the  nobility 
of  the  Poet's  mind,  his  unsubdued  nature,  his  eager  desire  for  the  fray,  surrounded  by 
the  brilliancy  of  adventurous  Oriental  legends.  Byi-on  was  a  Cliilde  Harold.  Don  Juan, 
and  Manfred,  simply  because,  from  his  earliest  youth,  he  could  not  follow  the  path 
of  the  Giaour. 

With  a  melancholy  satisfaction  we  see  the  Poet  himself,  after  struggling  to  break 
through  the  iron  barriers  of  dull  conventional  life,  launch  out  in  the  full  development  of  his 
character,  to  shew  by  deeds  how  noble  was  the  germ  of  his  inmost  being.  From  that  moment 
when  he  raised  his  sword  for  Hellas,  the  flame  began  to  kindle  in  which  the  Phanix  should 
devour  itself;  that  fire  of  purification, — that  fire  which  obliterated  every  stain  and  blemish  on 
his  name. 


H  0  L  Y     F  A  M  i  L  Y, 


MICHEL    ANGELO    AMEKIGHI. 


One  of  the  most  remarkable  painters  in  the  brilliant  succession  of  the  Italian  school 
is  Ameriglii,  called,  after  his  birth  place,  Caravaggio.  Like  the  wonderful  flower  in  the  fairy 
tale,  Michel  Angelo  Buonaroti's,  Raphael's,  and  Tizian's  gorgeous-  works  flourished  but  for 
a  short  time  and  then  disappeared.  An  army  of  successors  struck  out  into  the  track  prepared 
for  tliem  by  these  great  originals;  the  superficial  imitations  of  the  style  of  painting  of  these 
heroes  was  applied  to  the  most  unmeaning  or  lowest  "ideal",  and  carried  out  to  the  greatest 
extreme  by  their  scholars.  All  Italy  painted.  On  all  sides  indefatigable  hands  were  raised 
to  reduce  to  atoms  tiie  miraculous  temple  which  the  great  painters  of  the  fifteenth  and 
sixteenth  centuries  had  erected. 

The  Carraccis  ventured  to  oppose  the  encroaching  torrent  of  mannerism.  By 
a  conscientious,  systematic  imitation  of  the  most  eligible  peculiarities  of  these  departed 
masters    they    pro))oscd    to    restore    the    splendour    of   jiainting    to    its    former    greatness. 


1 


HOLY    KAMII.V.     AKTEK     IMICIIKI,     ANOKM)    AMKHIfiHI.  265 

These  UnlDLinese  celecties  ii.-e<l  tlieii'  iitiii(i~t  eiii!e;iv(iiu>  to  f^ivc  correctness  of  I'cinii,  l>iii, 
iiltliiiiigh  they  sueeee(leil  in  lliis,  they  were  only  lie^'iniicrs  with  I'ej^ard  to  free  conceptioii. 
Tiieir  tiicorctieal  experiments  neitlicr  snf'Keeil  to  fill  np  the  eliasni  between  tiic  iniitaletl  nia>ler- 
picces  and  the  reality  of  natnre,  nor  to  realize'  it  ideality  as  it  is  (•oiitaiiied  in  the  antii|ue. 
Thev  cndeaxonred  to  seize  upon  the  same  means  of  representation  as  the  i^reat  masters: 
the  ideas,  lor  whieli  these  means  were  only  the  cxi)ression,  were  not  accessible  to  them. 

Besides  these  eclectics  who  had  come  to  a  stand-still,  another  class  of  artists  entered 
the  Held.  Satiated  with  the  empty  formalities  of  the  eclectics  they  turned  their  attention  to 
the  source  of  all  art,  io  nature  itself.  At  the  head  of  these  painters  stands  Michel  Anj^elo 
Amerighi. 

Of  an  aspiring  genius,  \igorous  temperament,  and  brillant  p<i\\ers  of  imagination, 
resembling  in  more  than  one  respect  the  great  Michel  Angelo,  Amerighi  da  C'aravaggio 
began  to  paint  with  a  display  of  indejjendence  as  if  no  greater  master  than  himself  had 
c\cr  existed  before  him.  And,  it  is  true,  the  great  masters  ne\  er  existed,  so  I'ar  as  he 
was  concerned,  for  the  greatness  of  these  eminent  men  had  never  been  disclosed  to  him. 
Without  intellectual,  almost  without  technical  preparation,  he  commenced  his  career  as  an 
artist,  urged  on  only  by  an  irresistible  inward  impulse  to  create,  and  his  own  ungovernable 
Mill.  C'aravaggio  was  a  journeyman  bricklayer,  as  ignorant  as  his  companions  of  the  craft: 
he  obtained,  however,  a  situation  in  the  atelier  of  the  Cavalier  d'Arpino  who  employed  the 
yoimg  man  in  the  conunon  drudgery  of  his  profession.  This  j)roud  person,  who  was  at  the 
head  of  a  school  of  Arts  in  Kome,  little  imagiried  that  his  servant,  with  his  sharp  visage 
and  deeply  simk,  yet  large  and  sparkling  eye,  would  one  day  become  his  most  formidable 
rival,  and  before  whose  productions  his  own  pictures  would  sink  into  nothing. 

Caravaggio's  means,  at  the  onset,  were  coarse,  but  the  germ  of  his  aspiration  was 
true  and  mighty.  In  his  very  first  pictures  he  gained  a  decided  victory  over  the  unmeaning 
classical  mannerism.  C'aravaggio  could  neither  make  use  of  the  forms  of  the  great  masters 
nor  of  the  creations  of  mere  imagination  to  give  expression  to  the  ideas  that  were  fermenting 
in  him  with  passionate  vehemence.  The  figures,  fit  to  answer  to  the  ardent  imagination  and 
violent  tem])er  of  Caravaggio,  required  before  all  that  bodily  strength  of  apj)earance  which, 
in  its  full  incasiu'c,  is  only  to  be  found  life  itself.  Figures  he  must  have,  and  such  that  no 
doubt  could  be  entertained  as  to  their  being  real  flesh  and  blood,  of  a  nature  so  closely 
related  to  that  of  these  who  were  to  behold  them,  that  the  latter  should  feel  that  they  were 
moved  to  the  very  depths  of  tlieir  souls  by  joy  and  pain,  by  terror  and  despair. 

It  was  an  absolute  necessity  for  Caravaggio  to  make  his  figures  the  interpreters  of  his 
own  emotions.  But  this  could  be  accomplished  only  when  the  painter  introduced  his  figin-es 
with  all  their  especial  [)eculiarities,  with  all  the  characteristic  contingencies  alwa3's  attendant 
on  living  persons.  In  other  words,  he  wanted  a  copy  of  reality  to  render  the  gradations 
of  the  passions  in  his  figures  more  impressive. 

The  highest  degrees  of  sentiment  are  not  to  be  expressed  by  art  when  the  subject  to 
be  represented  is  common-place  and  trivial.  Caravaggio  therefore  chose  situations  sufficiently 
important  to  give  his  figures  a  dramatic  action,  even  to  the  development  of  the  most  gloomy 
pathos.  It  is  the  internal  feeling  that  he  strives  to  depict,  and,  in  endeaA'oiu'ing  to  effect  this, 
it  very  seldom  happens  that  he  swerves  from  the  dramatic  and  wanders  into  the  lyric  ])ath, 
as  is  the  case  in  some  of  his  allegorical  compositions;  we  may  mention  as  an  instance  his 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  34 


266  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

picture  ui  "Tcirestrial  iind  C'elesti;i|  Love."  Caravaggio's  effects  do  not  lie  in  his  situations — 
this  is  an  error  which  has  very  often  been  repeateil  in  the  criticisms  on  the  works  ol  this 
master.  To  maintain  this  is  to  misinterpret  tlie  mental  capacity  of  the  painter.  To  be  convinced 
that  Caravaggio's  strength  lies  in  depicting  the  intensity  of  the  moving  passions  of  his  figures, 
it  will  be  sufficient  if  \\c  cast  a  glance  at  his  many  imitators.  Of  these  .Spagnoletto  was  the 
greatest.  These  imitators  made  their  situations  their  first  principle,  and  thus  approached  the 
lowest  degree  of  hideousness,  while  their  figures  are  wholly  void  of  spiritual  life.  We  have 
only  to  call  to  our  recollection  Hpagnoletto's  pictures  of  "St.  Bartholomew,"  or  his  "Cato," 
who  is  tearing  his  entrails  out  of  his  body. 

AN'^lien  Spagnoletto  has  a  free  choice  of  situation  he  apjiears  in  all  his  strength;  for 
instance,  when  he  re])resents  scenes  at  the  gaming  table,  or  an  assassination  by  night,  a 
conspiracy,  deeds  of  magic,  &c.  His  jjicturc  where  two  sharpers  are  plundering  a  young  man, 
whose  eyes  are  riveted  with  vacant  gaze  on  the  cai'ds,  possesses  such  force  that  the  beholder 
can  scarcely  withdiaw  his  attention  IVoni  it.  This  picture  has  been  repeated  several  times: 
the  Dresden  (iallcry  contains  a  very  fine  one.  The  Gallery  of  the  Capitol  in  Rome  has 
"A  Fortune-teller;'"  the  expression  both  of  the  woman  and  of  the  young  man,  from  the  palm 
of  \\  hose  hand  she  is  prophesying,  is  wonderfully  striking. 

When  Caravaggio  does  not  choose  his  subject  and  situation  according  to  his  own 
fancy,  but  enters  the  general  field,  his  incificiency  is  sadly  palpalilc;  indeed  his  rcjiresentations 
ai'c  insufferably  offensive  to  the  eye.  He  could  not  refrain  from  the  portrayal  ol'  scripture 
subjects,  on  which  artists  of  the  greatest  power  had  for  centuries  exerted  themselves;  until  it 
would  seem  that  unless  an  artist  could  produce  one  ol  these  historical  subjects,  and  treat  it 
successfully,  he  could  make  no  pretension  to  be  considered  a  great  master. 

Caravaggio  introduced  his  natural  figures  into  his  pictures  of  sacred  history,  pro- 
ducing such  an  astounding  lunnbcr  of  incongruities  between  the  subject  and  the  rc|)rescntation 
of  it,  that  it  ga^e  an  idea  of  vulgarity,  and  the  figures  freijuently  degenerated  to  positive 
monstrosities.  Those,  however,  >\ho  are  disposed  to  waive  this,  and  only  look  for  what  the 
painter  intemlcd  to  represent,  will  discover  a  jirofusion  of  figures,  even  in  his  most  decried 
pictures,  painted  witli  the  most  touching  fidelity.  ^Ve  allude  particularly  to  the  figure  of  Mary 
in  his  picture  of  "The  P^ntombnicnt  of  Christ""  in  the  Vatican.  A  mother  suffering  so  intensely, 
and  weeping  her  very  heart's  blood,  has  never  been  painted  by  any  other  master.  There  is 
another  piece,  in  the  Giustinian  gallery  in  Berlin,  "C'hrist  on  the  Mount  of  Olives;"'  the 
Redeemer's  sufferings  in  His  human  nature,  and  the  bitter  anguish  of  His  soul  before  He  is  to 
suffer  death  by  the  hand  of  the  executioner,  are  most  wonderfully  depicted.  The  expression 
is  so  powerful  that  it  transfigures  and  glorifies  the  forms. 

"The  Holy  Family"  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery,  notwithstanding  its  very  un'-divine 
conception,  displays  a  certain  nobility  of  soul  in  the  peaceful  relations  of  the  figures  with 
each  other.  The  best  figure  in  the  composition  is  unquestionably  that  of  St.  Anna.  The 
Virgin  is  a  rough,  curly-headed  woman  of  Trastevere,  possessed  of  all  kinds  of  human 
passions,  but,  at  the  same  time,  displaying  the  feeling  of  maternal  dignity. 

The  colouring  of  Caravaggio  is  remarkable  for  its  richness.  His  relief  is  produced 
by  his  sharp,  strong  lights,  reminding  us  of  torch-light,  which  agree  well  with  his  dark, 
unreflccted  shadows.  His  earlier  pictures  possessed  a  more  transparent  style  of  colouring, 
which  the  painter,  in  his  later  works,  avoided  as  being  too  effeminate. 


i 


t-riiahffi^^ 


Dmclt  B  Verlai?  dEnjliaohei 


'.eiptij  8:  Dresden 


LA    PKLISSK.    AFTER    H.    P.    RIUKN:^.  267 

Carav.agojio'!:  rliaracter  was  irrefi'iilar  ami  vmlciit,  and  this  may  Kc  li-ai'cil,  in  liis 
works.  He  lived  in  open  feiirl  with  iiis  toes,  the  Cavalier  d'Arpino  and  his  scholars  and 
patrons;  the  point  oi'  tlie  stiletto  was  resorted  to  hy  hoth  parlies.  It  is  said  that  in  a 
reneontre  with  his  enemies,  one  of'tiuni  tell  l>y  his  jiand,  and  that  ( 'aravajigio,  fearful  of  being 
arreste<l  as  a  murderer,  deemed  it  e.\pedient  to  leave  Home  immediately.  In  his  Hijjht  he 
touched  at  the  island  oi  Malta,  where  he  was  received  into  the  Order  of  the  Knif^hfs 
of  St.  John.  At  length  he  ventured,  from  Naples,  to  return  to  Rome,  in  the  sup|)Osition  that 
the  affair  had  hy  this  time  lieen  forgotten.  Unhappily  i'or  him,  however,  it  proved  otherwise; 
for  his  enemies  had  set  a  bravo  on  the  watch  for  him,  and  he  was  mortally  wounded  by 
the  assassin. 

L'aravaggio  died  in  the  j'ear  1609,  about  the  age  of  40.  His  nimierous  imitators  would 
not  acknowledge  the  correct  line  which  Caravaggio  had  laid  down  i'or  them.  They  made 
the  external  effect  of  their  situations  their  chief  point;  they  took  a  fancy  to  representing 
executions,  going  to  an  extreme  \\  hich  at  first  simply  disgusting,  at  length  !)ecame  ridiculous, 
and  quenched  every  spark  of  life  in  their  figures.  The  classic  nonsense  came  into  vogue 
again;  and  this  was  opposed  by  the  materialists,  who  dealt  in  the  grotesque.  The  cynical 
caricatures  commenced;  the  scenes  of  low  life  in  the  style  of  Bamboccio  were  invented,  and 
ventured,  for  the  most  part  in  real  earnest,  to  claim  for  themselves  the  mastery  of  the 
conditions  of  an  artistic  work — an  exact  treatment  of  the  lights,  and  a  carefid  cJiiaro  osciiro. 


LA     PELISSE, 


p.    p.    KUBEJiS. 


Rubens  was  so  enchanted  by  the  beauty  of  Helene  Fornian,  his  second  wife,  that  he 
was  never  tired  of  immortalizing  her  attractive  charms  by  means  of  his  art.  We  find  in  a 
numlier  of  his  historical  and  genre  pictures  the  majestic  form  of  the  beautiful  Helene:  in 
addition  to  which  she  was  the  subject  of  a  series  of  more  or  less  natural  looking  portraits. 

Maidenly,  full  of  naive  roguery,  Helene  appears  as  a  shepherdess.  She  wears  a  little 
hat  adorned  with  blue  flowers,  saucily  cocked  on  one  side  of  her  head.  The  upper  part  of 
the  wonderfully  speaking  countenance  is  kept  in  mellow  half  shadow.  This  likeness  seems 
to  have  derived  its  origin  from  the  time  of  the  painter's  first  acquaintance  with  the  beauty. 
Scarcely  any  other  portrait  of  Helene  exhibits  such  fine  finish. 

In  one  of  the  pictures,  at  Windsor,  the  lady  looks  matronly.  She  is  richly  attired 
and  has  grown  stouter;  she  still  possesses  the  graceful  form,  especially  in  the  lower  arm 
and  hand. 

In  the  Berlin  picture,  Rubens  has  displayed  the  graceful  charms  of  his  wife  in 
their  most   beautiful   development.     Her  countenance  and   deportment   denote   majesty   and 

34* 


268  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

mild  dignity.  In  no  otiier  liiceness  does  the  olaiiee  of  her  eyes  betrny  sueh  hewitehing  power. 
Rubens  Iijis  nivcn  her  a  palm  In-aneh  in  licr  liand,  and  an  a  ninibu.s  beams  around  her  head. 
The  picture,  apparently,  was  painted  after  she  had  experienced  the  joys  of  maternity. 

Next  to  these  most  celebrated  imrfraits  of  Helene,  by  liubens,  is  that  in  the  I'ehedere 
Gallery,  in  which,  like  a  Greek  goddess,  she  presents  her  naked  form  for  the  admiration 
of  the  beholder.  Taken  as  a  paragon  of  beauty  there  are  parts  of  the  figure  wliicii  are  open 
to  criticism.  There  is  a  motherly. character  pervading  the  entire  form,  and  the  contour  here 
and  there  seems  swollen  or  wants  refinement — the  lower  extremities,  for  example.  But,  in 
his  best  pictures  Tizian  himself,  with  his  finest  gradations  of  colour,  never  surpassed  the 
brilliant,  the  triumjjhant  colouring  of  the  flesh  tints  as  displayed  in  this  picture  by  Rubens. 
Tliis  may  be  regarded  as  the  chief  beauty  of  the  "Pelisse;"'  indeed  it  is  this  characteristic 
which  has  made  the  portrait  so  well  known. 

There  can  be  no  question  that  tiie  ))ainter,  had  lie  pleased,  might  iiave  idealized 
ujion  certain  blemishes  which  ap|)ear  in  various  parts  of  the  figure,  for  instance  the  mark 
of  the  garter  about  the  knee,  and,  again,  the  feet,  which  irresistibly  remind  one  of  shoes. 
The  painter,  however,  purposely  represented  his  Helene  as  she  was.  This  ])icture  hung 
over  the  bed  of  the  master  till  he  died.  In  his  will  he  bequeathed  to  Helena  Forman 
"La  Pelisse,"  that  she  might  do  what  she  liked  with  it.    The  figure  is  painted  life-size. 


L    E    D     A, 


J    SCHROTZBERO 


The  stor}'  of  Leda  and  Jupiter's  metamorphosis  has  been  portrayed,  times  out 
of  number,  by  the  pencil  of  the  painter.  Leonarilo  da  Vinci  painted  the  amorous  Swan 
and  the  daughter  of  the  King  who  surrendered  herself  to  his  deceitful  embraces,  and  also 
Leda  with  Castor  and  Pollux,  the  signs  of  whose  pedigree  were  given  liy  two  broken  egg- 
sliells  lying  on  the  bank  of  a  river.  In  a  technical  jioint  of  view  this  is  a  sulyect  which 
demands  the  finest  degree  of  art  in  colouring.  The  flesh  tints  of  the  female  figure,  and 
the  snow-white  plumage  of  the  swan  in  juxtaposition,  recpiire  the  hand  of  a  master.  White, 
as  Rubens  remarks,  is  the  destruction  of  every  picture,  unless  the  painter  thoroughly  under- 
stands the  management  of  this  poison;  and  if  it  be  not  used  with  the  greatest  caution  and 
discretion,  partictdarly  in  contact  with  flesh  colour,  the  effect  of  colour  is  lost. 

•Schrotzberg,  a  talented  modern  painter,  has  endeavoured  to  steer  clear  of  this  rode 
by  placing  both  figures  in  his  picture  under  the  effect  of  an  artificial  light.  The  swan,  in 
approaching,  turns  froui  the  light,  by  which  means  the  front  of  the  roy.al  bird  is  thrown 
into  shadow,  while  the  upper  part  of  the  figure  of  Leda  is  partially  shaded  by  the  outspread 
wings  of  the  swan;  their  forms  presenting  the  full  eflFect  of  light.     The  shadow  thrown  by 


Dnidcu  Verlatf  dEn^isclieii  RimstanstallvAlITayne,  LeipaiJ  S  Dresden 


Druclcu  Verlag'  iEiiglisdien  Kbistanstalt  vAHPa^e,  ijeipzigo:  Dresaen 


TlIK    PKODIfJAI,    SON.    Al   IKK     I'UMI'KO     riAl'ON'l.  209 

tlie   lirtvorhif!;  s\v;m    is    not    iicrlcctlv   ciiiniirilicusiliK'    until    the   Iji-iinldi-r,    in    his    ini;ifiiii:ilii)ii, 
siipjilios  the  "widr  sliadowing  wings;'"  one  imly  heinj;  indiculcd  in  tiic  |ii(iuio. 

The  coiniiosition  from  its  simplii'ity  and  case  reininds  us  ot  tlic  Koman  type.  'I'lic 
s«aii  is  treated  more  conventionally  tiian  an  adlurenre  (o  nature  wonld  justify,  'i'iic  modelling 
ol  the  loi-m  of  Ijeda  is  not  free  from  iciiroaeh,  Knl  the  |ii)sition  of  the  figure  is  exf|ui>ifc. 
'J'he  colouring  is  hright,  hul   the  draiicr\'  is  conluscd. 


THE  PRODIGAL  SON, 


POMPEO    BATONl. 


Rome,  the  theatre  for  the  ideal  de\clo]iinent  of  t'hrisiian  art,  witnessed  \\iiliin  her 
walls  its  total  decay.  The  history  oi'  the  Roman  school  when  it  liegan  to  rise  in  ]ii>\ver. 
with  Michel  Angelo  as  the  champion  and  \ictorlous  leader,  and  Raphael  as  th<>  herald 
of  peace,  is  a  bright  and  glorious  one.  While  following  the  works  of  her  disciples  and 
reflecting  on  the  intense  labours  of  the  eclectics  who  assayed  to  pro])  up  the  falling  structure 
of  Christian  art  in  tlie  eternal  city,  pity  overcomes  us,  and  we  tiiin  shuddering  from  the 
ruins  over  which  i)arbarism  has  planted  its  banner. 

In  form,  in  the  best  works  of  Raphael,  the  Roman  school  shows  the  most  exact 
measure  of  a.^sthetic  thought.  Herein  lies  the  cause  why  it,  the  pillar  of  the  ideal,  sank 
more  rapidly  and  tleepcr  than  any  of  the  other  schools  of  Italy.  The  followers  of  the 
great  master  found  forms  sufficiently  full  of  meaning,  and  easy  of  imitation.  They  seized 
upon  the  exterior  form,  that  which  only  the  best  of  RajjliaeFs  scholars  knew  iiow  to  employ 
in  the  spirit  of  their  master.  But  even  with  them  what  they  called  Raphael's  style  began 
to  be  empty. 

Painters  of  a  later  date,  scholars  of  the  Urbiner's  scholars,  who  did  not  feel  religiously 
boiuid  to  respect  the  forms,  created  and  perfected  by  Raphael,  appropriated  them  as  suited 
their  convenience.  They  made  use  of  these  forms  typically,  divested  them  of  their  psychical 
and  intellectual  properties  to  which  they  were  indebted  for  thcii-  existence,  thus  reducing 
them  at  once  to  absolute  nullities. 

The  system  of  introducing  Roman  and  (irccian  myth  into  the  sphere  of  picturesque 
representation,  adopted  by  Raphael  himself,  was  especially  ominous  of  evil.  The  nature 
of  myth  requires  that  it  be  represented  through  the  medium  of  sculptiu-e,  not  of  painting, 
which,  on  one  hand,  goes  altogether  beyond  the  essence  of  mythological  personages,  and  on 
the  other,  cannot  effectively  conceive  then).  Each  antique  Deity  represents  some  abstract 
idea,  or  concentred  totality  of  a  series  of  particular  perceptions.  If  these  mythical  beings 
be  presented  out  of  their  own  cii-cle,  if  they  fall  out  of  their  rdlc,  they  are  no  longer  what 
they  ought  to  be. 

This    principle    of  exclusiveness    can    bo    rendered    by   sculpture:    and    through    this 


270  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

medium  only  ran  its  most  perfect  expression  lie  gi\en.  But  as  the  painter  defines  tliese 
persons  their  exelusiveness  becomes  wholly  destroyed.  He  can— if  lie  do  not  confine  himsell' 
solely  to  painting  statues— represent  them  in  no  other  way  than  as  living  men,  to  whom,  a.s 
such,  nuist  l)e  conceded  sulijective  feeling,  voluntary  action,  personal  freedom  of  thought 
and  dealing;  and  all  these  we  must  admit  at  the  first  glance.  In  the  hands  of  the  painter 
they  lose  the  character  of  antique  deities,  and,  still,  according  to  their  nature,  they  are  not 
human  beings,  hut  unmeaning,  inanimate  anomalies,  presenting  all  tiie  coldness  of  death. 
In  those  mythological  figures  only  whose  natures  bear  the  nearest  resemblance  to  human 
beings,  heroes,  nymphs,  &c.,  do  the  limits  of  the  sphere  of  representation  proper  to  the  two 
plastic  arts  approach  each  other:  these  figures  may  lie  painted,  and  imbued  with  a  human 
appearance  without  material  injury  to  their  essential  character.  Thus  it  is,  that  the  mytho- 
logical pieces  by  Raphael,  in  which  the  inferior  deities  appear,  are  likewise  the  best  of  this 
kind.    In  them,  the  discrepancy  is  less  glaring. 

Itaphael's  followers  found  it  much  easier  to  employ  his  ready-made  mvthological 
figures  than  to  take  the  trouble  to  enter  into  his  views  and  perceptions,  and  by  these  means 
to  learn  how  to  avail  themselves  of  the  ideal  forms,  ]!ecnliar  to  him,  from  sacred  and  profane 
history.  jSIichel  Angelo,  the  painting  scidptor,  had  gained  an  ascendency  over  the  plastic 
element,  and  from  his  pictures  they  might  have  learnt  how  the  gods  of  Greece  were  made 
to  move,  in  order  to  produce  an  effect. 

We  see  with  what  rage  the  followers  of  the  two  gi'cat  Roman  masters  set  to  work  to 
utterly  ruin  the  free  individuality  in  painting  which  Christianity  had  lirought  into  existence. 
Mythological  figures  were  no  longer  capable  of  expressing  the  mass  of  new  and  more  com- 
prehensive ideas  which  had  arisen  in  the  course  of  centuries,  and  Allegory,  always  a  willing 
servant,  but  in  painting,  especially,  a  most  unserviceable  one, — the  impersonal  Plasticism — 
obtruded  itself,  to  use  a  colloquial  expression,  as  "a  help  at  a  pinch"  to  conceal  the  bald 
nullity  of  the  inward  barenness. 

In  vain  did  the  Caracci  and  their  school  oppose  this  destructive  innovation,  in 
endeavouring  by  the  closest  analysis  to  discover  the  reason  of  the  great  old  masters'  supremily. 
What  art  could  do  without  creative  genius,  -^ATthout  unfettered  beauty,  these  eclectics 
accomplished.  They  made  the  externals  of  the  great  masters  the  rule  for  their  form,  the 
details  of  which  they  built  up  and  sought  together  experimentally,  according  to  the  idea 
intended  to  be  expressed.  They  committed  the  mortal  sin  of  cleaving  in  half  the  artistic 
thought,  without  which  form  is  not  imaginable,  for  the  sake  of  sooner  mastering  the  form  in 
it.s  sensuous  conception.  The  form  remained  for  them,  deprived  of  its  original  meaning.  The 
spiritualization  of  the  form,  however,  was  arrived  at  in  a  new  way  by  the  eclectics;  they 
made  an  aiistract  of  it,  the  separate  parts  of  which  could  be  treated  conceptively  liy  the 
speculation.  The  Caracci  and  their  scholars  never  soared  beyond  tliis  sphere  of  conception. 
Their  figures  ap]ieared  simply  as  symbols  of  what  they  actually  meant  to  express.  Like 
an  actor,  who  instead  of  identifying  himself  in  his  rri/c  according  to  the  character  and  feeling 
of  the  person  he  is  representing,  superficially  imitates  another  performer  who  has  played  the 
same  part.  The  greatest  merit  of  the  Caracci  consists  in  the  correct  reproduction  of  the 
works  of  the  great  masters.  What  they  themselves  performed,  what  their  speculations 
resulted  in,  was  to  introduce  into  art  a  phantom  instead  of  a  living  man,  and  is  nothing 
more  than  labour,     laboin-  missiienf. 


THE    PKODIGAL    SON,     AKTKU     I'dMI'I-.n     H A  lOXI.  271 

The  tlegeneialion  of  the  Veiictiiiii  school  is  hy  im  iiuiins  .--o  manifest  a."  that  of  the 
Koman.  Tlic  Vciietiaius  could  not  iall  fo  low  as  the  latter,  for  the  t-ini]ile  reason  tliat  they 
luul  never  liseii  so  liitrh.  The  sfrcatest  N'enelian  niasler,  '1  izian.  is  a  naturalist  in  the  noblest 
sense,  llliirion,  which  with  the  lloniaii  idealists  was  of  secondary  consideiation,  Tizian  uses  iiis 
inmost  endeavours  to  cany  out.  and  thus  exercises  an  intluenee  over  the  mind  and  sentiment 
of  the  lieliolder.  \Mialever  «e  may  think  is  a  matter  ol'  indifference  to  liini.  In  this  point 
lie  very  sekloin  liimseli  takes  anv  s|)ecial  ])ains.  For.  the  fiutheiance  of  illusion,  Tizian 
elosely  observes  the  minutia'  which  nature  offers,  and  faithfully  imitates  them:  he  therefore 
is  eons]pieuous  amonjrst  the  renowned  masters,  he  stands  alone  as  the  painter  who  treats  his 
landscape  in  a  style  befitting  the  dignity  of  his  figures.  This  representation  of  sensate 
beauty  whiih  natm-e  reveals  is,  at  its  connnencement,  a  mere  mechanical  imitation  grounded 
upon  (he  most  pleasing  phenomena  which  she  presents,  and  may  be  acquired  by  any 
artistically  practised  hand;  ideal  composition,  however,  demands  an  infinitely  greater  degree 
of  concejitive  power.  The  latter  appears  as  the  attriimte  "f  highly  eidtiva^cd  nature. 
Schools  like  those  of  Venice  can  scarcely  fall  into  an  unnatural  style,  for  let  them  turn 
whichever  way  they  may  be  disposed,  they  are  at  every  moment  surrounded  by  nature 
on  all  sides. 

Tizian,  luiiil  his  death — and  his  years  niimbcnd  nearly  a  century —  sustained  the 
altitude  at  which  the  Venetians  had  arrived.  Although  the  veteran  coidd  not  conceal  the 
gradual  decrease  of  his  powers,  and  the  increasing  tailing  olf  in  the  ardour  of  his  sentiments, 
still  he  preserved  his  style  of  painting  to  the  last. 

While,  c^cn,  in  the  zenith  of  his  greatness,  there  were  bold  partisans  who  departed 
from  his  track,  and  beat  out  paths  for  themselves  by  encroaching  on  the  range  of  foreign 
schools.  The  violent  action  which  characterizes  Tintoretto's  figures  was  derived  from  Michel 
Angelo  in  Rome;  and  Tintoretto  for  a  considerable  period  laid  it  down  as  a  rule  that  the 
di'awing  ot'Buonaroti  and  the  colouring  of  Tizian  must  go  hand  in  hand.  A  greater  absurdity 
than  this  is  not  to  be  found  in  the  annals  of  the  art  of  ])ainting.  Angelo"s  figures  look  like 
statues,  which  this  Prometheus  had  set  in  motion  to  express  the  subject  of  his  picture. 
These,  as  it  \vere,  twice  born  figures  are  incompatiiile  with  the  sphere  in  which  they  are 
placed.  Any  luimaii  being  would  meet  his  death  if  his  frame  were  subjected  to  such 
distortions  as  these  figures,  the  creations  of  a  heated  imagination,  present:  they  are  goaded 
to  the  very  marrow,  so  that  every  muscle,  sinew,  and  fibre  is  in  the  highest  state  of  tension. 
They  call  forth  the  feeling  of  j)Ower,  sublimity,  horror,  through  which  we  are  led  into  the 
master's  field  of  fancy. 

In  s'leh  figures  no  such  thing  as  natural  colour  can  exist,  for  they  even  overstep  the 
bounds  of  nattu-e.  They  are  superhuman.  I'lace  them  under  the  sovereign  effect  of  light 
they  sink  into  weak  mortals,  or  they  are  turned  into  rci)ulsi\e  monsters.  But  in  Buonaroti's 
pictures  the  light  is  adapted  to  the  figures  and  dispenses  with  many  of  its  properties:  thus 
they  retain  their  supcrterrcstrial  power,  without  sacrificing  their  a'sthetic  character. 

Buonaroti,  therefore,  cannot  appropriate  Tizian's  brilliant  colouring;  on  the  other  hand 
the  Venetian  is  not  able  to  take  up  Angelo's  style  of  drawing  without  destroying  his  picture. 
In  the  endeavour  to  unite  the  two  failure  must  necessarily  follow. 

Those  pictures  in  which  Tintoretto  has  sought  to  resolve  this  ])roblem  are  absurdities.  He 
is  excellent  only  when  he  adheres  to  an  imitation  either  of  Angelo  or  of  Tizian,  but  separately 


272  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

taken.  But  those  abortions,  or  absurd  piccci^,  in  whicii  lie  pretended  to  niaivc  his  maxim 
hold  good,  i'oiind  the  most  imitators.  In  these  .Vngelo  preponderated,  and  Tizians  colourini!,' 
wa.s  lost  in  a  very  ■■^hort  time.  The  plastic  element  liegan  to  take  the  lead;  the  fatal  mytho- 
logical figures  together  with  their  allegorical  attendants  carried  everything  before  them,  .lud 
the  Venetian  .-school — if  the  most  abject  mannerism  be  not  acknowledged  as  art — declined. 
Tizian,  in  his  best  days,  foi'med  the  antique  gods  into  human  beings,  glowing  with  life;  liis 
later  followers  transformed  their  mortals  iuto  aljominablc  caricatures  of  01ymj)iau  deities. 

The  other  Italian  schools  retrograded  in  a  similar  manner. 

After  the  decease  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  Correggio,  and  Paolo  Veronese,  tlie  painters 
of  Lombard)'  were  divided  in  their  endeavours.  The  influence  which  these  three  masters 
exercised  over  art,  was  greatly  inferior  to  that  of  Michel  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  Tizian. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  a  highly  gifted  universal  genius,  considering  his  great  talent  for  art, 
produced  l)Ut  very  little.  Unfortunately  enough,  there  was  besides  this  a  fatality  hanging- 
over  his  works,  which  caused  most  of  them  to  be  destroyed,  and  conseijuently  they  could 
never  become  the  prototypes  of  a  later  devclojiment  of  art.  Leonardo's  unbounded  elasticity 
of  spirit  and  fantasy  seems  to  be  always  struggling  with  the  limited  cold  forms  of  art.  Only, 
and  this  was  rarely  the  case,  when  the  master  had  so  thoroughly  and  so  profoundly  realized 
to  himself  the  subject  he  was  about  to  paint,  so  as  to  have  it  before  him  in  all  its  simi)lleity, 
then,  and  only  then,  was  ho  able  to  produce  a  picture  which  fully  expressed  his  ideas  and 
sentiments.  As  a  general  rule,  b.owcver,  he  could  proceed  nn  farther  than  to  ennoble  the 
exterior  appearance  of  his  figures.  His  field  of  )ierccption  and  knowledge  was  great;  but 
Leonardo  was  not  master  of  that  field,  he  seems  only  to  have  had  the  use  of  it.  lie  attempted 
nearly  ever)'  branch  of  intellectual  activity,  and  almost  witiioul  willing  it  became  at  home  in 
all.  Without  artificail)-  producing  it  he  could  not  feel  and  enjoy  that  of  which  he  was  really 
conscious.  But  in  this  respect  he  was  not  absolutely  restricted  to  painting:  he  was  also  a 
Poet,  a  jMusician,  a  Sculptor. 

Every  thing  that  entered  or  arose  in  Leonardo's  soul  sought  the  nearest  means  by 
which  it  might  clothe  itself  in  the  garb  of  art.  If  the  subject  which  aftected  the  master 
was  in  near  relationship  with  music  or  poetry,  then  Da  Vinci  became  the  poet  or  the  com- 
poser, or  he  presented  himself,  lute  in  hand,  producing  music  and  poetry  at  the  same  time: 
and  like  a  sinirinj^  improvisatore  givino-  vent  to  the  current  of  his  ideas  and  feelings. 

He  did  not  see  the  necessity  of  fostering  an  idea  which  he  intended  to  express,  of 
meditating  carefully  upon  it,  of  divesting  it  of  every  single  inharmonious  chord  or  slight 
artistical  incongruity  which  might  present  itself.  Therefore  he  is  seldom  master  of  the 
subject  under  his  hand.  Generally  Leonardo  is  thrown  upon  his  own  resources  to  feel  and 
to  try  whether  this  or  that  form  is  pleasing  or  compatible  with  the  subject  or  not.  To  this 
cause  may  be  attril)uted  the  fact  of  Da  Vinci  having  finished  so  few  pictures:  he  could 
scarcely  ever  satisfy  himself,  but  generally  jiroduced  something  entirely  dissimilar  to  that 
which  he  originally  intended. 

In  no  other  way  compatible  with  the  master's  greatness  can  we  account  for  the 
singular  fact,  that  one  who  was  equally  endowed  with  sublime  conceptions  and  with  creative 
power,  should  have  jiroduced  so  few  works  in  which  these  gifts  are  united  and  show  us  the 
master  in  all  his  glory. 


TIIK     I'HODICAI.    SON,     AFI'KK'     I'lt:\II>E()     HATONl.  273 

The  artistical  endowment  of  Leonardo  is  of  a  nature  too  complicated,  expression  is 
so  very  inconsistent  tliat  if  is  not  easily  understood,  and  offers  no  firm  starlinif  point  for 
students  to  commence  ujjon.    Thus  it  is  that  T^eonardo's  school  is  so  remarkahly  sterile. 

Correggio  and  Veronese,  in  point  of  intellectual  conception,  are  of  inferior  rank. 
In  the  conception  of  the  subjects  to  be  represented  they  move  within  the  traditional  limits, 
but  as  technologists  they  are  perfect  giants.  In  the  history  of  art  neither  of  these  two  great 
colourists  created  a  new  era,  like  Michel  Angelo,  Raphael,  and  Tizian. 

That  essential  which  the  leaders  of  the  Koman  and  Venetian  schools  eai-ried  out 
seems  to  have  died  with  tiiem.  A  deluge  succeeded  them.  They  are  to  be  regarded  as 
the  winding  up  of  an  earlier  period  of  art  whose  united  tenor  had  its  full  scope.  To  this 
tenor,  however,  they  remained  firmly  attached.  Its  basis  forms  the  contemplation  of  the 
world  and  of  human  life  in  the  true  sense  of  Christianity. 

Raphael  forms  the  centre  [)oint  of  its  artistic  representation.  In  him  a])pear  mind  and 
feeling  in  purest  harmony  equally  balanced.  Angelo  surpasses  Raphael  in  the  spiritnel,  but 
in  feeling  is  far  behind  him.  Tizian  soars  over  Raphael  in  the  sensuous,  owing  to  his  warm 
feeling,  but  in  an  intellectual  sense  cannot  cojie  with  him.  All  three  masters  in  their 
way  arrive  at  the  boundaries  of  that  period  of  art,  which  with  them  was  brought  to  a 
termination.  That  they  really  reached  the  goal  is  fully  proved  by  their  having  stepped  over 
it,  for  the  purpose  of  introducing  heathenish  views  of  the  world  into  C'hristian  art. 

In  the  works  of  these  three  great  masters  classical  anticjuity  appears  only  of  secondary 
importance.  But  the  purity  of  Christian  art  was  disturbed  by  the  introduction  of  the  profane, 
which  had  still  greater  influence  with  the  successors  of  these  masters;  the  region  of  art  was 
transformed  into  a  chaos  and  new  conformations  uncontrolably  intruded  themselves.  With 
Leonardo  da  Vinci,  although  he  was  older  than  tiie  other  three  painters,  the  profane,  from 
the  first,  seems  to  have  been  *t  rivalry  with  the  sacrcil.  In  his  own  person  he  prophetically 
discovers  to  us  the  struggle  between  the  two  principles,  the  final  result  of  wliich,  in  the 
regeneration  of  art,  did  not  show  itself  for  centuries. 

Beside  the  antique-profane  the  epigones  of  the  Cinquecentists  placed  that  of  common 
life.  Naturalism  raised  its  head  and  the  truth  of  its  assumptions  caused  the  classic-profane 
to  appear  in  all  its  hollowness. 

Amerighi  da  Caravaggio,  endowed  by  nature  with  most  prodigious  powers  ol'  rejn-e- 
sentation,  had  nearly  proved  that  all  Olympus,  thus  artificially  awakened,  \\\\\\  its  spectral 
shapes,  could  not  suffice  for  the  fermenting  and  raging  passions  of  his  mind.  The  figures 
which  should  correspond  with  his  unbridled  powers  of  imagination  and  iiis  undivinc,  coarse 
naturel  must  be  capable  of  a  vehement  action  and  a  passionate  sentiment.  In  order  to  make 
this  feeling  as  eff'eetive  as  possible  it  must  be  concentrated  in  the  highest  degree. 

For  this  ])urposc  it  was  necessary  to  carefully  represent  the  peculiarities  of  jjcrsons 
in  whom  certain  sensations  existed,  and  in  the  most  effective  manner.  Without  knowing  this 
positive  feeling  we  cannot  comi)rehend  the  expression  of  its  gradation  when  at  its  highest 
point.  In  fact,  to  make  such  a  gradation  possible  it  is  requisite,  in  addition  to  the  favourable 
peculiarities  of  persons,  to  portray  the  particular  circumstances  which  are  associated  with 
them,  but  which  are  otherwise  of  a  purely  accidental  nature. 

Galleries  of  Vienna,  3d 


274  THE    GALLEKIKS    OF    VIENNA. 

With  these  precise  characteristic  prefatory  conditions  which,  through  an  accidental 
situation,  simply  serve  the  purpose  of  expressing  the  intrinsic  feeling  of  the  person 
represented,  Amerighi  departed  from  the  ground  of  the  old  schools  and  turned  his  attention 
to  nature. 

Raphael  shows  us  an  action  for  the  sake  of  the  idea  which  lies  within  it.  His  figures 
are  only  there  to  carry  out  this  iiurjiosc.  They  exhibit  all  that  is  required  to  elucidate 
the  object,  but  offer  nothing  more  than  is  necessary  to  the  end.  They  are  sufficiently 
characterized,  to  render  the  meaning  ol'  the  action  perfectly  intelligible,  at  the  same  time 
that  they  are  free  from  all  extraneous  accessories  which  do  not  bear  upon  the  subject;  so 
that  we  are  not  led  away  from  the  idea  and  our  attention  is  not  diverted  from  the  general 
action.  Caravaggio's  aim  in  his  action  is  to  display  the  subjectivencss  of  the  persons  together 
with  their  peculiarities. 

Tizian's  figures  present  themselves  in  a  manner,  that  the  situation  represented  is 
endued  with  a  general  tone  of  harmony.  C'aravaggio"s  situations  are  merely  to  decide  the 
mood  of  his  persons;  that  is,  when  he  thinks  proper  to  lit  the  matter  rest  there. 

At  the  first  glance  one  might  take  Amerighi  for  a  representative  of  the  dramatic 
principle  in  painting.  This  he  would  be  in  the  fullest  sense,  if  he  made  the  action  arise 
necessarily  from  the  character  of  his  persons,  and,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  embarrass  himself 
by  painting  them  in  a  merely  accidental  scene. 

By  thus  allowing  the  action  no  inherent  rights  of  its  own,  and  by  making  all  that 
happens  suljservicnt  to  the  essential  characterization  of  his  figures,  he  is  able  to  endow  them 
with  the  whole  force  of  his  conception.  These  figures  are  portrayals  of  Caravaggio's  own 
fantastic  self;  in  them  we  at  once  discern  his  intractable  powers  of  imagination,  his 
passionateness,  together  with  his  irascible  humours,  and  his  moral  distraction. 

In  his  pictures  he  needed  the  substantial  a[)pear:uice  of  real  life,  in  order  not  to  fail 
in  his  object  of  con^  eying  his  sentiments  to  the  beholder.  Thil  was  the  point  to  which  his 
host  of  imitators  adhered.  Their  productions,  however,  betrayed  a  want  of  soul,  an  absence 
of  his  mighty  lyric;  for  this  they  substituted  the  pathetic  situation  which  the  master  used 
only  as  a  means.  The  more  insipid  the  figures  became  the  more  dire  was  the  situation, 
of  which  Spagnoleto  has  presented  many  examples.  Naturalism  soon  sunk  to  the  lowest 
crade  of  rude  materialism. 

o 

The  futile  exertions  of  the  Caracci  to  raise  art  to  the  splendour  of  the  olden  times 
have  already  been  touched  upon  as  a  direct  contrast  to  the  activity  of  the  great  masters. 
Raphael's  style  was  not  regenerated  l)y  the  critical  conception  of  the  figures'  exterior.  The 
(Jaracci  would  \v,\\e  achieved  much  more  had  they  directed  their  analysis  to  the  manner  in 
\\hich  Raphael's  ideas  are  combined.  As  all  the  care  of  the  Caracci  was  a  correct  method, 
they  miglit  here  have  found  one  by  means  of  which  they  might  have  brought  their  own 
ideas  into  a  shape  suitable  for  being  represented  by  the  drawing  which  they  imitated  from 
Ra])hael. 

But  they  could  proceed  no  further  than  the  outward  forms.  As  the  substance  was 
wanting,  it  was  impossible  to  display  them  under  new  associations.  They  were  very  lavish 
of  their  figures  in  order  to  produce  new  pictures.  The  Greek  and  Roman  classics  were 
forced  to  open  their  treasures.    The  world  of  mythology  was  again  alive.    It  appears  well 


THE    PRODIOAI-    SON,    AFTKR    Pcmi'Ko    HATOXr.  275 

adapted    fur   the    pseudo-antiiiue   representations   of  tliat    time,   lor   \<y    deforces    the  painters 
altogetlier  lost  sigiit  of  the  ideal  as  well  as  the  natural. 

The  classic  affectation  soon  took  precedence  of  that  of  tlie  materialist-^  which  had 
degraded  the  characteristic  style  of  an  Anierighi  to  the  cynical  cMricature  in  the  Ramhocciads. 
The  classic  became  the  fashion  and  belonged  to  the  ho)i  ton.  At  that  time  it  was  thoiiglit 
that  that  no  historical  event  could  be  represented  in  a  manner  worthy  of  art  without  being 
transformed  into  classical  nonsense,  and  decked  out  with  mythological  properties  which  had 
become  indispensable. 

Next  to  the  heroic  of  classical  iiistory,  which  found  its  way  even  into  landscape,  the 
pastoral  element  was  greatly  in  vogue.  The  idylls  anil  bucolic  poems  of  Theocritus,  Bion, 
Virgil,  and  Calpurnius  were  plundered,  and  legions  of  Arcadians  appeared  in  seeming  naivete 
on  canvas  and  on  the  stucco  of  the  walls  of  palaces  as  rei)rescntatives  of  the  ingenuous 
refinement  of  a  luxurious,  enervated,  immoral  era. 

These  children  of  nature,  the  produce  of  the  most  degraded  mannerism — downright 
imbecility — met  with  the  greatest  success.  All  the  fine  world  began  to  play  at  sliepherds. 
Nothing  was  seen  or  heard  of  but  Sylvias,  Dorises,  Lydias,  ^lyrtills,  Damons  and  Wiyllises, 
Chloes  and  a  multitude  of  similar  personages  and  an  immense  number  of  flutes  and 
shepherds'  crooks. 

For  the  glorification  of  these  Arcadian  wonders  the  prize  is  not  due  to  the  Italian.*, 
but  to  the  French,  who  can  shew  the  most  gallant  bucolic  pictures  which  in  super-affectation 
and  pseudo-naivet^  bid  defiance  to  the  simple  beauty  of  nature  which  they  are  meant  to 
represent. 

To  the  time  when  art  was  at  its  lowest  ebb,  belong  the  works  of  the  last  Italian 
master  of  the  old  school.  This  was  Pompeo  Batoni.  If  we  wish  to  be  pleased  with  this 
painter  we  must  not  allow  our  anticipations  to  be  too  much  exalted. 

Like  Carlo  Maratti  and  Carlo  Cignani,  who  vacated  the  scene  in  the  second  decennium 
of  the  eighteenth  centurj',  Batoni,  with  his  naturalistic  perception,  was  bold  enough  to  attempt 
to  follow  in  the  wake  of  Raphael.  Like  those  two  eminent  painters,  whom  in  his  best  works 
he  nearly  approaches,  or  equals,  he  had  to  contend  against  a  great  deal  of  very  obstructing 
material  which  had  forced  its  way  into  art  and  was  not  to  be  ignored.  Scepticism  in  the 
sphere  of  religion,  of  which  Raphael  saw  only  the  beginning,  had  increased  to  an  immense 
extent.  Sophistry  had  gained  the  mastery.  A  philosophical  analysis  prevailed,  which  in  all 
its  confusing  disorganization  had  not  lost  at  least  the  tendency  to  negation.  Only  the  basis 
of  the  pure  material  seemed  firm.  Its  figures  alone  were  not  doubtful.  The  artistical  means 
of  representation  were  degraded  to  making  the  most  correct  copy  of  the  most  trifling  incidents 
and  common-place  appearances.  On  the  other  hand,  there  reigned  an  extravagant  philosophical 
speculation  in  the  sphere  of  a  mystic  spiritualism,  which,  through  the  formation  of  secret 
societies,  sought  to  exert  its  influence  over  the  higher  classes.  An  artistically  shapeless 
symbolism  connected  the  abstract  idea  with  the  opposite  extreme— the  crude  material.  Where 
art  stepped  in  to  render  these  pieces  of  abstract  theory  evident  to  the  senses,  it  produced 
immaterial  appearances,  spectres  beyond  all  bounds  of  monstrosity. 

In  this  chaos  Batoni  made  his  appearance  with  naivete.  His  wizard's  strength,  indeed, 
was  not  sufficient  to  compel  its  varying  forms  to  remain  within  strict  decided  artistic  limits; 

3ij* 


276  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

but  lie  found  a  neutral  ground  upon  which  he  could  draw  both  the  spiritual  and  the  purely 
material  within  the  circle  of  artistic  representation.  Piatoni  is  a  master  in  the  art  of  pleasing 
and  thus  is  able  to  make  our  feeling  vibrate  in  unison  with  his  figures,  whether  taken  from 
the  world  of  allegory,  or  from  every  day  life. 

From  portrait  painting  he  entered  the  range  of  sacred  and  profane  history,  as  also 
allegory,  and  in  the  exercise  of  his  inexhaustible  powers  of  invention,  he  always  introduced 
pleasing  features  into  his  pictures,  which  excite  our  interest,  and  re-produced  the  most 
hackneyed  subject  in  a  form  entirely  new.  Thus  it  is  that  Batoni's  pictures  give  us 
impression  of  the  genre  style. 

His  "Prodigal  Son,"  who,  almost  destitute  of  clothing  and  half  famished,  returns  to 
his  father,  is  a  good  demonstration  of  Batoni's  peculiar  treatment  of  his  material.  The 
figure  of  the  Prodigal  is  exr|uisite]y  drawn,  and  the  expression  of  pity,  the  constant  flow 
of  tenderness  in  the  parent's  heart,  are  equally  well  portrayed  in  the  countenance  of  the  old 
man.  Batoni's  peculiarity  is  exemplified  in  the  emotion  of  the  father,  which  is  both  real,  as 
well  as  syml)olically  significant,  and  who  opens  his  warm  fur  mantle  and  wraps  it  over  the 
naked  penitent.  Although,  on  comparing  the  design  of  this  picture  with  the  beautiful 
Scriptural  parable,  we  may  discover  certain  discrepancies,  still,  this  trait  is  so  replete  with 
deep  feeling,  and  so  in  harmony  with  the  symbolical  sense  of  the  narrative,  that  the  most 
fastidious  cannot  i'ail  to  be  pleased  with  it. 

Batoni,  Girolami  Pom])ejo,  or  Pompeo,  was  born  in  Lucca  in  1708;  but  he  was 
educated  for  his  art  in  Eome,  in  w  hich  city  he  remained  till  his  deatii  in  1 787.  He 
originally  worked  as  a  goldsmith,  but  soon  took  to  painting.  Having  married  early,  in  order 
to  support  himself  and  family  he  was  necessitated  to  make  copies  of  Raphael's  pictures  and 
to  paint  portraits.  The  forms  of  the  great  master  became  familiar  to  him  without  obliterating 
his  taste  iind  perception  in  characterizing  living  men. 

Pompeo  Batoni  was  justly  considered  the  best  painter  of  his  time.  He  joined,  at  least 
not  unworthily,  the  suite  of  the  Italian  painters,  and  more  particularly  the  Roman  artists. 
For  forty  years  Batoni  maintained  the  honourable  position  as  head  of  the  Italian  painters 
when  Rome  became  the  scene  of  that  movement  from  whicli  a  new  epoch  in  art  arose. 

Meanwhile  Inimanucl  Kant  had  raised  loose  scepticism  to  a  systematic,  scientific 
criticism;  thus  armed  he  assayed  to  penetrate  the  positive,  the  reality  in  the  sphere  of 
abstract  notions  of  things.  His  criticism  could  not  ignore  tliat  great  field  in  which  the 
abstract,  the  idea,  presented  itself  conjointly  with  the  feeling — the  field  of  art.  Kant  created 
his  philosophy  of  the  Beautiful,  and  thereby  paved  the  way  by  which  we  can  arrive 
philosophically  at  the  meaning  of  artistic  form,  and  the  laws  of  mutual  dependence,  according 
to  which  the  one  becomes  the  scale  for  the  other. 

It  was  these  laws,  and  no  longer  the  cold  exterior,  which  were  sought  for  in  the 
antique  as  well  as  in  the  works  of  the  great  masters;  and  with  these  endeavours  commenced 
the  new  epoch  in  art. 

Winckelmann  appeared  in  Rome  to  begin  his  investigations  in  the  sense  of  the 
German  philosophy  of  art.  After  him,  as  painter,  came  Raphael  Mengs,  the  first  artist  in 
the  early  dawn  of  art  in  the  new  period;  he  was  an  eclectic  certainly,  but  one  who  sought 
to  carry  out  Kant's  ideas  in  accordance  with  the  method  of  the  Caracci,  The  truest  follower 
of  Raphael  Mengs  was  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds. 


PPRabensjv 


'VaMher  sa 


ca^^y^y. 


1  matanslaU  V  A  H  Payne,  L  eip^iig  a  Urea  den 


MAXIMILIAN     I.,    AFTER    I'.    I",    HIHENS.  277 

Altlumgli  Mcngs,  with  all  his  ehihorate  productions — drawn  from  a'sthctic  analysis 
and  no  more  i'roni  that  of  the  naked  form — was  hy  no  means  possessed  of  orif^inal  ideas 
to  raise  the  new  art  to  distinetion,  still  it  was  enough  that  he  struck  into  the  path  of  truth, 
entirely  eradicating:;  the  de<^enerated  style  of  art  practised  liy  the  It;ili:iu  |i:iinlcrs,  and 
destroyiuf;:  the  iniportnncc  oi'  tlieir  last  master  Pompco  Batmii. 


M  A  X  IM  1  L  1  A  N    1., 


AFTER 

P.     P.     RUBENS. 


Emperor  Max  1.  is  one  of  the  most  illustrious  personages,  not  only  in  the  records 
of  the  IIal)sI)urgs,  hut  also  in  the  annals  of  regencies.  In  his  early  youth  he  was  called 
the  "Mute,"  for  until  his  tenth  year  his  speech  was  very  imperfect,  and  he  betrayed  very 
little  promise  of  even  common  talent.  Nevertheless  the  child  possessed  the  latent  seeds  of 
great  intellectual  faculties.  The  first  thing  in  which  the  Imperial  Prince  distinguished  himself 
was  in  chivalrous  Ijodily  exercises,  then  so  much  thought  of;  afterwards  his  intellectual 
powers  were  hy  degrees  developed,  and  even  eminent  personages  at  the  Imperial  court  were 
thrown  into  the  shade.  The  Mute  had  lent  an  attentive  ear  to  all  that  ha<l  passed,  he  had 
observed  everything  and  had  forgotten  nothing;  his  memory — the  first  characteristic  of  a 
great  mind — was  incomparable,  lie,  who  was  called  the  "Mute"  soon  stood  forth  as  a 
paragon  of  forcible,  animated  oratory,  expressing  himself  masterly  in  the  Latin,  French, 
Italian,  English,  Bohemian,  and  German  languages.  He  was  thoroughly  acquainted  with 
mathematics,  history,  and  the  art  of  war;  he  painted  well,  was  a  finished  musician,  wrote 
excellent  poems  and  was  perfect  in  prosaic  diction.  To  these  accomplishments  were  united 
an  amiable  disposition,  inexhaustible  good  humour,  and  a  magnanimity  which  never  forsook 
Maximilian. 

The  young  Prince's  prowess  now  extended  to  field  sports  in  which  he  shewed  the 
most  undaunted  courage,  and  became  celebrated  for  his  remarkable  adventures  in  the  noble 
chase.  The  people  talked  amongst  themselves  of  Max  having  slain  with  his  hanger  a 
wild  goat,  high  up  in  the  mountains;  that  he  pursued  his  game  by  leaping  over  a  fearful 
precipice,  and  overtook  it  on  the  ridge  of  a  rock.  In  the  country  of  the  Ens,  Max  had 
overpowered  a  huge  bear  breast  to  breast,  in  single  combat;  in  Brabant,  in  a  narrow  pass 
he  was  attacked  by  a  furious  stag  which  he  killed  just  in  the  nick  of  time,  for  the  deadly 
antlers  of  the  enraged  animal  had  all  but  touched  his  body;  and  he  vanquished  a  boar  with 
his  hanger  alone.  And  when  tlie  young  Prince,  eager  in  the  pursuit  of  the  chamois,  iiad 
reached  the  summit  of  the  Zirl,  when  he  stood  high  above  the  Valley  of  the  Inn,  on  a 
narrow  projccture  of  the  "Martiuswand"  which  overhangs  a  perilous  depth,  when  with  the 
patience  of  a  martyr  he  waited  in  this  situation  three  days  for  hcl[i,  and  at  length  was 
miraculously  rescued,  then  became  "Lord  Max"  the  people's  favorite  for  ever. 


278  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Max  was  no  less  intrepid  on  tlie  field  of  battle  or  in  the  lists  of  a  tournament  than 
in  the  chase.  His  demeanour  while  confronting  his  enemy  was  as  cool  as  though  he  were 
taking  a  ride  on  horseback  for  pleasure;  he  adhered  strictly  to  his  order  of  battle,  or,  in 
case  of  necessity,  placed  himself  at  the  head  of  his  best  armed  Knights  and  troopers  and 
plunged  into  the  thickest  of  the  fight.  He  was  often  challenged  to  single  combat  by 
renowned  hostile  warriors.  Max  never  refused  to  accept  a  challenge,  and  fought  with  sharp 
weapons  with  no  less  satisfaction  than  when  tilting  at  a  tournament.  What  the  Emperor 
was  capable  of  effecting  he  proved  at  the  Diet  of  Worms  in  1495.  A  French  cavalier, 
Claude  de  Beautr^,  had  conquered  the  best  men  of  the  Knighthood,  and  sought  in  vain  a 
new  antagonist,  when  the  Emperor  himself,  as  first  Knight  of  his  empire,  felt  bound  to  accept 
the  challenge.  In  tilting  the  Emperor  gained  no  advantage  over  the  invincible  foreigner,  but 
when — after  the  lances  were  broken— swords  were  drawn,  Max  pressed  his  adversary  so 
hard  that,  to  avoid  being  cast,  he  was  obliged  to  declare  himself  vanquished. 

Such  a  leader  was  sure  to  be  idolized  by  his  army,  the  more  so  as  Max  did  not 
attach  the  greatest  importance  to  his  mailed  and  noble  cavaliers,  but  to  the  common  foot 
soldier  and  the  artillery,  which  last  he  materially  improved  for  field  service.  The  wild  troops 
of  mercenary  soldiers,  who  under  any  other  leader  revolted  when  they  were  not  regularly 
paid,  and  disbanded  themselves  and  marched  off  to  some  other  place  where  they  might  expect 
to  be  re-united,  never  went  so  far  as  to  leave  their  "Lord  Max"  in  the  lurch,  although  it 
often  required  both  energy  and  wiliness  to  suppress  their  passion  for  revolting. 

Max  was  hot  only  a  friend  of  his  soldiers,  but  was  likewise  the  friend  of  his  citizens 
and  peasantry.  The  Emperor  always  found  pleasure  in  taking  part  in  the  civic  festivities, 
in  their  dancing,  and  their  sliooting  matches,  gave  prizes  for  the  best  marksmen,  frequently 
and  in  many  places  bearing  off  the  palm  himself  as  being  the  most  expert  in  the  use  of  the 
crossbow.  According  to  ancient  custom,  when  he  could  spare  the  time,  the  Emperor  himself 
presided  in  the  public  courts  of  justice  of  his  patrimonial  dominions.  Max  was  a  pious  man; 
and  for  this  very  reason  he  was  averse  to  the  clergy,  the  higher  ranks  of  whom  at  that  time 
indulged  in  worldly  enjoyments  without  restraint. 

He  firmly  resisted  the  claims  of  the  Romish  priesthood,   whenever  he   believed  the  , 
interest   of  the  Imperial  supremacy   to  be  in  jeopardy.     In  Pope  Julius  II. — the  powerful, 
choleric  patron  of  Michel  Angelo — Max   had  an  inveterate  enemy,   but   the  poor  "chamois 
hunter,"  as  Max  would  ofttinies  jocularly  call  himself,  was  not  to  be  easily  thrown. 

The  Imperial  power,  however,  did  not  gain  a  firm  footing;  in  fact,  the  Imperial  alliance 
became  more  and  more  relaxed,  especially  through  the  exertions  of  the  Spiritual  Electors,  and 
party  feuds  in  inner  Germany  prepared  th«  way  for  one  defeat  after  another  in  the  Emperor's 
foreign  policy.  Italy  was  agitating  independence  from  Imperial  authority;  Verona  and  Milan 
were  lost;  Dantzic  and  Thorn  had  de  facto  ignored  the  supreme  authority  of  the  high  court 
of  judicature,  had  withdrawn  from  the  Imperial  confederacy  and  submitted  to  Polish  influence; 
Switzerland  maintained  a  renitent  position,  and  was  obliged,  1507,  altogether  to  retire  from  the 
Imperial  body,  and  in  the  interior,  in  Wiirtemberg,  Ernestine  Saxony,  Pomerania,  Brunswick- 
Luneburg,  and  Franconia,  open  opposition  to  the  Emperor  had  sprung  up.  Max  was  more 
fortunate  in  his  endeavours  to  increase  his  power  in  his  patrimonial  lands.  Through  the  • 
union  with  Burgundy,  whose  heiress  was  Maria,  consort  of  the  Emperor,  Austria  all  at  once 
gained  European  importance. 


^_-^^i?z^;2-^^ 


;l'u->' 


achenKims-tanstaltvA  li  Faime,  LeipaiS  ft  TJTesdcri 


AMOK,    AKTKi;    KIJSABETTA    SIKANI.  279 

In  the  latter  period  of  tlic  reign  of  tlie  Kniperor  Max  coniinenccd  a  new,  ferrihlc  era 
for  Germany.  Max  was  inclined  to  place  himself  at  the  head  of  the  movement,  in  order  to 
concentrate  the  unity  of  the  (ierman  empire;  however,  the  fceiinff  came  over  him  that 
his  end  was  fast  ajiproaching,  and  he  relinciuished  his  plan  with  these  words:  "My  back 
is  too  old  to  hear  the  emperor  and  the  pope  at  the  same  time."  On  the  other  hand,  till 
his  death,  his  mind  was  occupied  with  the  idea  of  sending  a  grand  crusade  against  the 
Turks,  therehy  giving  a  new  extension  to  the  ein|)ire,  and  to  make  the  Soutli  a  counterpoise 
to  the  North. 

The  Emperor's  own  literary  productions  are  highly  important  as  shewing  the  state 
of  ci^•ilization  in  his  time.  We  make  special  allusion  to  the  "Thninlank"  and  the  "ffcisskunig"' 
of  whicli  not  alone  for  the  matter,  hut  likewise,  for  the  most  part,  in  the  i'orm,  the  authorship 
must  be  attributed  to  the  Emperor.  The  poem  of  the  Theurdank — under  which  name  the 
"Thciirliistige",  i.  e.,  one  in  search  of  adventure,  the  Emperor  Max  is  introduced  — has  for  its 
subject  the  wooing  of  Queen  "Rich-in-honour"  (Mary  of  Burgundy).  In  this  piece  the 
descriptions  of  the  chase  and  the  camp  are  immortalized  in  romantic  colouring;  while  in 
the  "Weisskunig"  the  history  of  Maximilian,  and  his  father,  the  Emperor  Friedrich,  are 
written  in  a  didactic  allegorical  style. 

Rubens  has  represented  the  Emperor  Max,  who,  with  the  exception  of  Barbarossa 
and  Rudolph  of  Habsburg,  was  the  most  beloved  ruler  of  the  Germanic  Roman  empire,  in 
battle  costume,  as  Grand  Master  of  the  Order  of  the  "Golden  Fleece." 


A     M     ()     R, 

AFTER 

ELISABETTA   SIRANL 


In  the  history  of  art  the  name  of  Sirani  owes  its  lustre  to  a  lady;  for,  without  her, 
the  family  \\ould  scarcely  have  been  rescued  from  oblivion.  Elisabetta  Sirani,  born  in  1638, 
was  the  daughter  of  Giovanni  Andrea  Sirani,  a  painter  known  as  one  of  the  cleverest 
imitators  of  Guido  Reni. 

Elisabetta  Sirani  passed  for  a  prodigy,  in  like  manner  with  the  daughter  of  Tintoretto, 
and  displayed  a  vigour,  a  versatility  of  talent  equal  to  that  of  Maria  Robusti.  She 
also  painted  in  the  style  of  Reni,  with  antique  forms,  enlivened  by  the  expression  of 
rapturous  feeling. 

Elisabetta  was  not  only  assiduous  but  remarkably  productive — she  seldom  or  never 
repeated  a  subject,  but  was  im|)elled  by  a  iKitural  desire  to  produce  a  continued  succession 
of  novelties — the  surest  sign  of  a  genuine  feeling  for  art.  This  artist,  distinguished  tor 
personal  beauty  and  purity  of  mind,  died  in  her  twenty-seventh  year — the  ^  ictim  of  poison, 
administered  to  her  by  her  execrable  and  envious  rivals  in  art. 


280  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


T  H  E     8  M  0  K  R  R, 

AP'TKK 

GABRIEL    METZTJ. 


This  master,  whose  works  have  Keen  amply  criticised  in  these  pages,  appears  in 
"The  Smoker"  quite  in  the  style  of  Tcrhuri;',  except  that  the  painting  is  treated  with  more 
delicacy  and  crispness  than  is  generally  observable  in  the  pictures  of  the  latter.  "The 
Smoker"  is  iinijuestionably  one  of  the  finest  productions  of  Metzu's. 


S  T  A  G  S    A  T    B  A  Y, 

AFTER 

KARL    RUTHAKT. 


lluthart  had  a  trick  of  introducing  his  animals  in  positions  most  singular  and  extra- 
vagant; indeed  it  would  seem  that,  instead  of  avoiding  he  endeavoured  to  discover  the  most 
peculiar  situations  for  the  figures.  The  consequence  is,  that,  not  unfrcqucntly,  the  positions 
chosen  have  an  appearance  of  being  unnatural,  or,  in  other  words,  we  arc  obliged  to  study 
them  before  we  can  appreciate  the  effect  intended.  Owing  to  this  eccentricity,  however, 
especially  in  scenes  of  terror,  a  surprise  is  produced  which  tends  to  enhance  the  expression 
Avhich  the  picture  is  intended  to  convcj'. 


ANDREA   DEL  8ART0. 


Merry  tones  resounded  through  the  iorc^t  of  Fontaincblcau.  They  were  not  the  hollow 
long  drawn  notes  of  the  bugle  which,  gently  swelling  like  the  rustling  of  the  breeze,  lapses 
into  irregular  modulations  reminding  us  of  the  sudden  variation  of  tones  i^  the  song  of  the 
wild  bird;  they  were  the  shrill  sounds  of  the  trumpet,  bursting  forth  like  a  clap  of  thunder 
over  our  heads.  The  trumpets'  harsh  tones,  the  mortal  enemy  of  voluptuous  sensations  and 
profound  meditation,  seemed  forcibly  to  scare  the  dreamy  tranquility  of  the  forest  like  an 
arrow  that  awakens  the  sleeper  from  his  repose.  The  brasen  tones  of  the  trumpet  recall  to 
us  the   open   field,    where   brightly   in   the   sunshine   Hashed   the   armour  of  the   chivalrous 


a^«^^  cS-!^>'Zi^/^l. 


OnickuVcS-lag  d  finglisclifin  Kunstanstalt  ■■ 


CRuthardip 


'Ca^.J  ^^y:^i2y.. 


>" 


/7/(r^' 


:'/erlagdEiiOi 


vAHPajneiLeipaigft  Dresden 


ANDEKA    DEL    SARTO.  2S1 

coinbiitants,  and  their  brandishod  s\vord-l)lades  sent  their  >;jiitterin;|  and  changing  rays  far 
into  the  distance.  The  martial  music  siuiinioned  to  the  combat,  and,  liad  we  understood  the 
art  of  war,  we  should  have  known  that  the  enticing  sound  and  then  the  concluding  blast 
of  the  trumpet,  ending,  as  it  were,  in  a  wild  cry  of  courage,  was  tlic  signal  which  at  a 
tournament  challenged  the  cavaliers  to  enter  the  lists. 

The  tournament  in  the  forest  of  Fontainebleau  was  one  of  the  most  magnificent  ever 
held  under  the  chivalrous  Francis  I.  It  was  not  the  polished  steel  that  sparkled,  but  the 
eyes  of  youthful  ladies  who  strove  to  brecak  the  resistance  of  the  cavaliers,  and  the  "gall- 
bitter  point  of  the  lance"  was  supplanted  by  the  "winged  arrows  of  love  exciting  converse" 
steeped  by  Cupid  in  honey. 

A  brilliant  company  was  assembled  on  an  oval  meadow  surrounded  by  bushes  and 
majestic  old  trees.  Spring  glancing  through  the  boughs  with  their  delicate  clusters  of  leaves, 
viewed  her  fairest  .heralds  and  combatants  assembled  on  the  flowery  meadow. 

Under  an  oak,  which  spread  its  shadows  wide  around,  was  erected  a  throne  seemingly 
composed  of  an  immense  number  of  roses  which,  from  afar,  reseml)lcd  the  vapory,  flittering 
clouds  of  evening.  Upon  this  structure  of  roses  was  raised  a  seat,  glittering  with  gold,  on 
which  was  enthroned  an  cnchantingly  beautiful  female  figure.  Her  white  robe  was  decorated 
with  garlands  of  flowers,  her  healthy  checks  shamed  the  roses  and  her  eyes  sparkled  with 
not  less  vivacity  than  the  diamond  dew-drops  in  her  shining  black  iiair. 

This  Queen  had  a  bevy  of  knights  and  ladies  assembled  around  her.  In  various 
groups  appeared  the  juvenile  figures,  now  standing,  now  free  from  restraint  lying  down  on 
the  sward,  or  like  spangling  flowers  scattered  over  the  surface  of  the  meadow. 

The  heralds,  who  stood  behind  the  throne  of  roses,  having  again  sounded  the 
trumpets,  one  of  the  cavaliers  raised  his  small  court  hat  with  feathers  and,  addressing  the 
Queen,  said: 

"Sublime  Sovereign!  Thy  coaunand  has  penetrated  the  confines  of  the  terrestrial 
globe,  and  thy  servants,  the  powerful  sorcerers,  have  assembled  with  the  quickness  of  the 
wind  the  flowers  of  loving  knighthood  to  thy  feet  that  thou  mayest  judge  of  them. 

Not  only  from  those  lauds 

Where  the  cross's  banner  's  raised, 

Come  joyously  the  vassals 

Here  to  carry  off  the  prize  . . . 

E'n  from  distant  Thule 

A  combatant  appears. 

Whose  ardour  made  him  brave 

The  cold  winds  of  the  North. 

Yea,  from  eastern  Fairy-land, 

Where  romance  abounds 

As  the  ears  grow  in  tiie  corn-fields, 

Intermixed  with  thorns..." 

"I  say,  Coz!  Thou  growest  satirica',  and  more  especially  towards  thy  own  person. 
How  canst  thou  risk  the  injury  to  thy  dignity  by  giving  utterance  to  such  stuff?  I  am  by 
no  means  envious,  otherwise  I  would  prove  to  thee  that  thou  art  in  good  training  to  spoil 
my  trade.. ." 

Gralleries  of  Vienna.  36 


282  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  person  wlio  in  this  way  jnteiTupted  the  bombastic  poetical  effusion,  wore  a  fool's 
cap  and  a  club  with  asses'  ears.  The  pudg^y,  nio^t  crafty,  ahnost  intellectual  visage  of 
the  fool  appeared  grinning  tin-ougli  a  large  wreath  of  flowers  which  the  jester  wore  round 
his  throat. 

The  declaimer  turned  half  round  to  the  fool,  and  in  a  whispering  tone  said: 

"Do  not  interrupt  nie,  Cousin!  Thou  wilt  have  time  enough  by  and  by  to  tribulate 
me,  Triboulet." 

"By  the  bones  of  my  witty  ancestors."  cried  tiie  fool,  "if  I  could  iiave  supposed  tliat 
thou  hadst  picked  up  that  miserable  quibl)le  in  'distant  Thule,'  T  would  iiave  been  dumb 
till  Dooms-day,  and  have  nmtely  entered  'the  Fairy-land  of  the  East,'  where  all  the  wisdom 
of  the  earth  is  not  worth  lialf  so  much  as  the  half  of  my  most  miscralile  wit..." 

"Thou  shalt  be  cudgeled,  Triboulet!"  murmered  the  knight. 

"Cousin  Francis!  Thou  canst  spare  thyself  the  trouble  of  committing  that  piece  of 
wit.  I  am  not  so  foolish  a  servant  as  to  speak  of  my  wit  witliout  duly  remembering  that 
of  my  noble  master.  Without  imagining  thee  to  be  acquainted  with  tlic  proof,  I  would  have 
remarked  that  thou  alone,  in  all  France,  art  able  to  split  my  worst  wit  into  halves  and  to 
serve  up  these  two  lialves  as  tlie  best  that  thou  canst  furnish." 

The  Queen  of  the  Roses  raised  her  sceptre  decorated  with  Howers,  and,  smiling,  made 
a  menacing  movement  at  Triboulet. 

"Madame,  it  is  time  for  me  to  l)e  silent,"  cried  the  fool.  "If  I  am  not  allowed  to  speak 
of  my  worst  wit  without  your  thinking  that  I  speak  of  you.  there  is  an  end  of  everything!" 

The  knight  recommenced  with  his  verse. 

"Fair  Queen  of  Hearts!"  said  he.  "By  an  interfering,  malicious  sorcerer,  whom  your 
beauty  fills  with  envy,  my  homage  has  been  interrupted." 

Yea,  from  eastern  Faii*y-land, 
Where  romance  abounds 
As  the  ears  grow  in  the  corn-fields, 
Intermixed  with  thorns  ..." 

"They  are  thistles,"  cried  Triboulet,  "every  ass  knows  that.    I  cannot  help  it." 

Roars  of  laughter  succeeded. 

After  a  pause,  the  knight  proceeded  in  the  highest  spirits: 

From  the  scorching  Taprobaua 

Merlin  bravely  led  crusades, 

And  bends  low  here  at  thy  feet. 

They  all  have  felt  the  thorns, 

The  sickliness  of  heart 

Which  comes  o'er  the  bravest. 

Far  wandering  from  his  love. 

All  are  adorned  with  honours, 

All  victims  to  love's  altar, 

And  shew  proofs  that  they  have  never 

Ceased  to  think  upon  their  loves. 

Each  true  knight  deelareth 

Those  types  of  knighily  virtues, 

Bel-Tenebre  and  Orlando, 

And  the  haughty  Paladin 


ANDREA    DEL    SARTO.  283 

Of  king  Artlmr's  lahlu  ruuiid, 

Have  siifFereil  less  torture 

Than  fate  has  measured  out 

To  each  one  of  thy  servants. 

Each  comphiineth   tliat  his  lady. 

For  her  cruelty  and  coldness, 

Is  nowhere  to  be  equalled 

In  this  terrestrial  globe. 

Then,  cliarniing  Queen  of  Love, 

Thy  wisdom   shall  decide 

Which  lady  has  most  cruelly 

Condemned  her  knight  to  torment. 

If  this  tigress'  heart  be  found, 

Thy  duty  'tis,  in  mercy. 

To  name  for  it  a  punishment. 

Each  knight  his  honour  pledges 

That,  he — not  e'en  in  dream 

AV'ill  cause  a  blush  in  beauty's  face ! 

To  the  lists,  then!     Come  ye  vassals! 

Let  the  Queen  now  judge ! 

The  Queen  of  the  Roses  bowed  to  the  speaker,  while  the  ladies  arranged  themselves 
at  the  right,  the  gentlemen  nt  the  left  of  the  throne.  The  Queen  then  rose,  and  with  a 
melodious  voice  said: 

"The  Court  of  Love  is  opened!     It  is  true 
I  rule  supreme,  yet  am  obedient  too. 
Commissiou'd  by  the  King,  by  rights   of  old  ..." 

"Make  a  bow,  Francis,"  whispered  the  fool  to  the  King. 

"And  now  reward  the  knight  most  true  and  bold. 

Let  the  herold  proclaim 

To  the  four  winds  the  same 

That  to-day  the  Queen  her  Court  of  Love  doth  hold." 

A  deafening  flourish  of  trumpets  followed,  and  the  hrst  herald  announced  in  the 
■  usual  old  rhymes,  that  the  cour  de  Vamour  was  opened. 

It  was  the  King,  Francis  I.  himself,  who  ste]iped  before  the  throne  of  roses  as  the 
first  candidate  for  the  honour  of  the  most  faithful  knight  in  the  universe.  He  cast  a  burning 
glance  at  the  Queen,  and  knelt.  Tlie  lady  i)lushed  as  she  bent  forward  to  touch  the  monarch's 
head  with  her  sceptre,  as  a  sign  for  him  to  rise. 

"Who  are  you?"  inquired  the  Queen. 

"I  am  a  poor  knight,  who  has  sworn  to  call  himself  by  no  other  title  than  the 
Unknown,  till  the  capricious  and  inventful  cruelty  of  the  lady,  whom  he  holds  for  the 
most  beautiful  on  earth — which  he  will  maintain  against  every  good  knight,  on  horse  or  on 
foot — shall  be  overcome  by  his  unshakable  fidelity,  or,  by  your  decisive  sentence,  O  Queen, 
be  broken." 

"Whence  come  you,  Unknown  Knight?" 

"Gracious  Princess,"  said  the  fool,  "expect  not,  on  this  point,  a  correct  answer  from 
my  master.    His  memory  is  not  his  strong  point.    I  therefore  find  myself  called  upon  to  come 

36* 


284  THE    GALLERIES    OP   VIENNA. 

to  his  aid  with  my  knowledge.  My  noble  master,  the  Unknown,  is  from  Turkey...  Dear 
master,  why  look  you  so  enraged  at  me?  Truth  must  come  to  light  at  last,  so  I  think  we  do 
best  to  begin  with  it . . .  Therefore,  most  illustrious  princess,  my  master  is  a  Turk,  and  if 
afterwards  the  oath  of  fidelity  goes  round,— of  course,  as  regards  my  noble  master,  only 
Turkish  fidelity  is  signified." 

"Cousin  Bourbon,"  said  Francis  I.  in  a  loud  voice,  "I  pray  you,  knock  down  that 
venemous  fool." 

The  Constable,  the  most  serious  looldng  personage  in  all  the  gay  assembly,  looked 
contemptuously  at  Triboulet,  and  replied, 

"Sire,  it  is  not  my  intention  to  render  the  name  of  this  fool  immortal  by  bringing  my 
good  sword  in  contact  with  his  checkered  doublet.  Besides,  I  think  the  fool  has  right  on 
his  side.  As  far  as  1  know,  the  creature  is  paid  to  annoy  one  part  of  the  court  in  order  to 
provoke  the  laughter  of  the  other." 

"Am  I  then  a  part  of  the  court?"  inquired  the  King  of  the  Constable  with  evident 
ill  humour. 

"At  this  present  moment,  Sire,  you  are;  that  is,  if  we  enter  into  the  spirit  of  the 
farce  in  which  you  have  deigned  to  take  a  character.  If  we  keep  to  old  custom,  only  the 
Princess  of  Carignan" — he  bowed  to  the  Queen  of  the  Court  of  Love — "can  here  command, 
and  she,  in  my  opinion,  will  find  too  many  subjects  for  reflection  before  she  can  at  once 
condemn  this  miserable  fool." 

"Well  spoken,  Constable!"  said  tlie  corpulent  Montmorency,  slapping  the  Prince 
of  Bourbon  on  the  shoulder.  "But  do  me  the  favour,  being  once  mixed  up  with  the  affair, 
to  empty  your  pockets  completely,  so  that  all  your  sour  cherries  may  appear..." 

"Xoble  Unknown!"  said  the  Princess,  turning  from  Carignan  to  the  King,  "no  doubt 
you  have  brought  this  gloomy  knight" — pointing  to  the  Constable — "to  my  court,  to  make 
a  part  of  the  penance  which  destiny  has  inflicted  upon  you  more  intelligible  to  me.  We  feel 
a  misgiving  for  your  pains  should  you  have  been  condemned  to  have  for  your  companion 
this  sour  looking  knight,  who  is  as  little  like  you  as  Don  Galaor  resembles  his  refined  and 
polite  brother  Amadis." 

The  weather-beaten  visage  of  the  Constable  presented  the  appearance  of  a  dark  red 
moon  rising  in  a  storm.  He  looked  with  angry  confusion  on  the  beautiful  Duchess  of  Savoy, 
and  with  a  military  air  turned  on  his  heel  and  directed  his  steps  towards  the  castle. 

Francis  I.  now  began  in  his  character  of  the  Unknown  Knight  to  relate  his  errantry 
and  adventures.  He  found  sufficient  inducement  to  describe  the  feelings  which  the  Princess 
had  wittingly  inspii-ed  him  with.  The  verses,  which  he  had  strung  together  in  their  proper 
places,  he  had  composed  himself  after  the  manner  of  "love's  lament"  in  the  romance  of 
Ancassin  de  Beaucaire,  a  great  exertion,  which  took  him  many  days  to  carry  out. 

"Does  your  vow,"  asked  the  Princess,  somewhat  confused,  "permit  you  to  name  your 
lady;  or  is  she  without  a  name  like  yourself?" 

"Nameless!" 

"We  will  pass  judgment  on  her,"  decided  the  Queen,  "when  the  other  knights  errant 
shall  have  likewise  made  their  complaints." 

Amid  loud  expressions  of  approbation,  the  king  made  way  for  the  handsomest 
cavalier  of  his  court,  Sire  de  Kohaii,  who  was  twenty-two  years  of  age. 


ANDliEA    DKL    SAKTU.  285 

Oi)C  love-sick  kniglit  f'olloweil  anotlier.  Those  of  the  hidics,  against  whom  cliarges 
had  been  biought,  were  summoned  liet'oiu  tiie  Queen  of  the  Court  of  Love,  and  spiritedly 
vindicated  themselves  against  the  accusation  of  cruelty.  The  lady  of  the  last  Paladin  having 
defended  herself,  the  Queen  began  a  secret  conference  with  her  maids  of  hfniour. 

Amid  the  stiains  of  charming  music  the  Unknown  Knight  was  declared  by  the  Princess 
as  the  one  whose  trials  of  love  and  fidelity  were  exalted  beyond  all  compare.  The  maids 
of  honour  brought  a  myrtle-wreath  interwoven  with  gold  leaves,  and  Francis  I.  ap|)roached 
the  Empress  of  the  Court  of  Love,  in  order  to  be  crowned  by  her,  as  the  truest  knight  in  all 
the  world. 

Triboulet  had  till  this  time  kept  quiet  as  a  mouse.   Now,  however,  he  pressed  forward. 

"Ha!  Most  beauteous  queen!"  cried  he,  "You  arc  about  to  commit  the  greatest  piece 
of  injustice  ever  heard  of  since  the  invention  of  that  noble  nonsense  the  cour  de  I'amovr. 
Tell  the  LTnknown  Knight  that  he  has  no  occasion  to  look  at  me  as  though  he  would  dislocate 
his  eyes.  1  am  fully  satisfied  as  to  his  'unknown'  truth,  still  I  can  prove  that  another 
Paladin  exists  who  is  so  shamefully  treated  by  his  ladies  that  all  the  pains  of  all  the  other 
knights  put  together,  would  appear  like  honey  of  paradise,  compared  with  the  martyrdom 
of  my  Paladin.    Justice  demands  that  I  be  permitted  to  introduce  my  Lazarus  the  Second." 

The  Princess  gave  an  inquiring  look  at  the  King. 

"Proceed,"  said  his  Majesty.  "1  will  withdraw  for  a  few  moments  in  order  that 
Master  Triboulet  may  bring  his  whim  before  you;  I'll  wager  that  he  himself  is  that  renowned 
Paladin,  and  that  the  cruel  lady,  of  whom  he  would  have  us  believe,  is  the  dog-whip  that 
has  been  lent  him  by  one  of  the  hunters." 

The  King  stepped  aside. 

Master  Triboulet  skipped  after  the  spectators  who  belonged  to  the  court  and  had 
witnessed  the  game  just  played,  and  seized  a  man  by  the  hand  who  resisted,  witli  all  his 
might,  the  attempts  of  the  fool  to  conduct  him  to  the  throne  of  roses. 

This  man,  to  judge  from  his  attire,  was  not  a  Frenchman.  His  delicate  form  was 
enveloped  in  a  kind  of  tunic  of  white  velvet,  the  folds  of  which  displayed  small  stripes 
of  dark  green  silk.  A  purple  girdle,  like  that  worn  by  the  Venetians,  was  fastened  round 
his  waist,  falling  with  its  tassels  and  tufts  down  to  his  knees.  Instead  of  the  French  hat,  the 
stranger  wore  a  cap  of  red  velvet.  He  was  still  a  young  man,  wore  a  short  beard,  and 
looked  remarkably  pale.  There  was  something  indescribably  pleasing  in  his  countenance. 
The  glance  of  his  large  dark  eye,  however,  betrayed  deep  melancholy. 

"Whom  has  the  fool  singled  out?"  enquired  Francis  I.  with  euriositv.  "Verily  he  is 
bringing  the  Florentine  to  the  place.  Master  Triboulet!  Wilt  thou  be  so  obliging  as  to 
conduct  thyself  with  the  greatest  tenderness  towards  him  whose  genius  tlie  King  honours:  or 
wilt  thou  compel  me  to  bring  thee  to  it  by  means  of  the  dog-whi|)?" 

"Do  not  put  thyself  into  a  jjassion.  Cousin  Francis!"  said  Triboulet,  "am  I  not  about 
to  assist,  quite  uninterestedly,  Signor  Andrea,  to  the  honour  of  the  truest  knight?  Forwar<ls, 
Master!"  whispered  he  to  the  man  in  the  tunic.  "If  1  do  not  procure  you  permission 
to-day  for  your  return  to  Florence  the  most  wretched  unliveried  buffoon  may  Ijreak  my 
fool's  wand.'' 

The  stranger  followed  him,  shyly  and  confused,  and  uncovered  his  beautifully  formed 
head  before  the  Princess. 


286  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"Most  gracious  Queen  of  Love,"  said  Triboulet,  placing  himself  beside  the  stranger. 
"Owing  to  the  unbounded  diffidence  of  this  interesting  knight  errant,  and,  further,  to  prevent 
him  racking  my  ears  by  torturing  the  noble  Lanc/iw  d'oui,  I  appear  here  as  his  interpreter 
Thou  hast  no  objection,  I  suppose,  Master?" 

The  person  addressed  uttered  in  a  low  tone  a  few  words  in  Italian. 

"Silence  gives  consent,"  said  Triboulet.  "O  Queen,  thou  seest  in  my  client  the 
representative  of  one  of  the  most  renowned  names  of  Christendom:  Signer  Andrea  Vannucchi, 
called  'Andrea  senza  evrorV  or  the  Unerring." 

"Interpreter,  knights  errant  only  have  the  right  to  appear  within  these  lists." 

"Your  Majesty,  only  in  the  shape  of  his  lance,  which  bears  tlie  form  of  a  pencil,  is 
Master  Andrea  not  a  knight  errant.  For  the  rest,  he  is  ever  errant,  because — as  even  at 
this  moment — he  never  knows  properl}'  which  way  his  road  leads  Hast  thou  anything 
further  against  the  Paladin?" 

"Go  on  with  thy  .«tory." 

"Our  Master  Andrea,  who  is  ever  infallible  with  his  brush,  first  saw  the  light  of  this 
fools'  world  in  Florence.  At  his  very  birth,  an  evil  omen  threw  this  noble  man  into  the 
immediate  neighbourhood  of  hell ..." 

"How  so?" 

"Your  Majesty,  his  father  was  a  tailor,  and  as  such,  boasted  of  being  not  only  sole 
proprietor  of  a  purgatory,  but  likewise  that  he  possessed  a  hell  for  the  stolen  remnants, 
whose  Urian  was  Signor  Vannucchi  senior  himself.  By  means  of  this  great  man's  art,  Master 
Andrea  wears  his  title  of  nobility  as  Andrea  del  Sarto,  or  of  the  tailor— a  name  so  ancient 
that  Montmorency  by  comparison  with  it  appears  like  a  new-born  babe. 

"The  little  Andrea  having  at  so  early  an  age  become  accpiainted  with  the  tailor's 
hell,  it  was  predicted  by  the  augurers  and  magicians  that  no  other  hell  on  earth  could  have 
any  influence  over  him.  The  child,  favoured  by  fortune,  really  gave  great  promise.  Andrea 
discovered  a  surprising  inclination  to  become  a  fool,  for  he-  displayed  a  biting  and  a  cutting 
genius,  like  all  the  great  Satyrists  and — Engravers.  Andrea  threw  aside  the  burin,  took  to 
the  pencil,  and  from  that  moment  he  was  lost.  He  began  his  daubing  that  he  might  go 
in  quest  of  adventure  to  the  Sancgreal:  he  sought,  namely,  the  ideal  of  beauty,  the  treasure 
more  costly  even  than  the  philosopher's  stone,  of  which  every  fool  possesses  a  bit,  while  the 
Lapis  pictorum  as  soon  as  the  artists  think  they  have  achieved  it,  is  always  transformed  by 
an  evil  genius. 

"It  must  have  been  Merlin,  the  son  of  the  devil  himself,  who  so  infatuated  our 
painting  tailor,  that  he  really  imagined  he  had  found  the  ideal  of  beauty,  this  enchanting 
nothing  in  corporeal  form,  awakening  love  and  longing.  He  discovered  a  wonderfully 
charming  female  being  whom  the  great  magician  Farnonsenso  had  enchanted  into  one  of 
the  most  wretched  lanes  of  Florence.  She  was  forced  to  become  the  wife  of  a  cruel  giant, 
named  Bluefinger,  who  concealed  himself  in  this  blind  alley  under  the  mask  of  a  hat-maker." 

Andrea  del  Sarto,  whose  hand  Triboulet's  still  held,  was  about  to  retire  altogether 
from  the  scene,  when  the  illustrious  assembly  burst  out  into  loud  laughter. 

"Ha,  friend,  take  courage!"  cried  the  fool.  "Thy  enemies,  the  magicians,  do  not 
intrude  here,  however  they  may  have  threatened.  The  tale  of  the  loves  of  Andrea  and  the 
enchanted  wife  of  the  hat-maker  is  one  of  the  most  pathetic  and  charming  that  ever  was 


ANDREA    DKI.    SAKTO.  287 

relateil.  The  lovers  having  been  tormented  in  the  most  fearful  manner  for  twice  twelve 
moons,  Farnonscnso,  at  length,  appeared  to  relent.  One  day,  when  tlie  hat-making  giant 
had  behaved  himself  with  most  especial  rudeness  towards  his  lord  and  master,  the  magician 
struck  him  dead,  and  gave  Andrea's  sweetheart  her  freedom. 

"The  friends  of  Andrea  came  around  liini,  and  cautioned  iiini  to  lake  heed  against  a 
fresh  malicious  trick  of  Farnonsenso.  The  old  jjcople,  the  parents  of  the  enamoured  young 
man,  entreated  iiim  to  turn  from  the  enchanted  princess — in  vain.  Andrea  married  his  beloved 
one.  The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  make  liim  licr  slave.  .She  deprived  him  of  all  peace 
and  quiet,  drove  away  all  his  friends  and  scholars,  calumniated  her  husband  everywhere, 
deprived  him  of  his  earnings,  that  she  might  the  more  effectually  plague  him  for  money, 
and  all  that  her  slave  gained  she  lavished  on  her  gallants. 

"An  illustrious  prince  of  (iaul  perceived  the  interminable  wretcliedness  of  the  victim 
of  Farnonscnso's  malicious,  magic  arts.  lie  rescued  Andrea  from  his  hell  and  took  him  to 
lovely  France.  But  the  magic  pursued  him  even  thither.  The  irrepressible  desire  again  to 
see  his  ideal  of  beauty  was  wearing  him  away.  Doubtless  il  is  the  work  of  the  magician, 
that  Andrea  cannot  paint  a  female  head  witluuit  its  being  the  portrait  of  his  tormentress. 
Kot  only  his  art,  but  his  existence  is  concentrate<l  in  this  beautiful  she-devil.  The  pangs 
which  Andrea  endures  when  apart  from  his  wife,  make  the  torture  he  suffers  when  with  her 
appear  a  life  of  happiness. 

"The  Gallic  Prince  had  obtained  a  \()w  from  Andrea  that  in  the  e^cnt  of  the  maiiickm 
insisting  upon  his  retiu-n  to  Italy,  he  would  use  every  endeavour  to  oppose  him.  The 
indiap])y  Andrea  had  chivalrously  kept  his  word:  but  look  at  him,  he  will  certainly  pine 
away.  His  love  and  fidelity  to  his  wicked  demon  is  his  life,  which  distant  from  the  woman 
of  his  heart  will  very  soon  be  consumed . . .  His  malady  is  so  great,  that  the  fairest  ladies 
in  all  France,  here  assembled,  would  have  no  power  through  their  love,  to  mitigate  the 
sufferings  of  the  enchanted . . .  Now,  beauteous  Queen,  is  there  a  Knight  more  faithful  than 
mine,  whom  even  thy  beauty  is  not  able  to  alienate  from  that  of  his  mistress?  Is  there  a 
lady  of  the  Knights  who  si  and  around  thy  throne  wlio  can  be  compared  for  cruelty  and 
malice  with  the  disenchanted  wife  of  the  hat-maker?" 

"Certainly  not,  fool,"  answered  the  Princess  of  Carignan,  "for  none  of  the  Knights 
have  discovered  the  poison  of  infidelity  in  the  hearts  of  their  ladies." 

"Is  there  a  Knight  present  whose  love  for  his  lady  would  I)e  increased  through  her 
infidelity?"  cried  Triboulet. 

No  one  answered. 

"Well,  then!  Here  stands  n\y  Knight,  who  loves  the  serpent  so  much  the  more,  the 
more  cruelly  it  lacerates,  and  with  its  sting  envenoms  his  existence...  Cousin  Francis,  you 
must  be  content  with  the  title  of  the  'most  faithful  Knight  amongst  the  non-enchanted.' 
If  the  enchanted  be  included  Andrea  the  tailor  is  the  first." 

"There  is  but  one  laurel  wreath  in  my  hanil!  "  said  the  Queen  of  Love.  "How  am  I 
to  crown  two  most  faithful  Knights?" 

"O,  Andreas  desire  is  not  for  a  wreath  from  thy  hand.  Proceed,  crown  thine  Unknown 
Knight;  but  make  fhe  Knight  of  the  Sancgrcul  of  bleeding  hearts  hap]iy;  relieve  his  love 
smarts  by  thy  most  gracious  permission  to  him  to  return  to  his  misery  to  his  evil  demon." 

"I  accord  him  this  cruel  act  of  srracel  '  said  the  Princess. 


288  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"By  no  means,  most  gracious  Princess!"  said  King  Francis,  hastily  stepping  forward 
and  seizing  the  painter's  hand,  as  if  at  all  events  to  secure  him.  "That  would  be  a  pretty 
finish  to  this  festival,  were  I  to  be  deprived  of  this  artist,  whom,  for  all  the  Courts  of  Love 
in  Provence,  I  would  not  part  with.  I  beg  you,  fair  cousin,  to  recall  your  word ...  I  have 
Andrea's  promise,  that  he  will  not  think  of  returning  to  Florence  before  he  shall  have 
completed  the  extensive  works  which  he  has  undertaken  to  execute.  He  will  not,  it  is  to  be 
hoped,  compel  me  to  order  one  of  my  bow-men  to  accompany  him  wherever  he  may  go!" 

"Unknown  Knight!"  exclaimed  the  Princess  with  an  air  of  great  displeasure.  "You 
seem  to  forget  tiiat  at  this  moment,  and  until  the  herald  shall  have  proclaimed  that  the  Court 
of  Love  is  closed,  according  to  ancient  usage  and  right,  I  alone  have  to  determine  in  all 
cases  brought  before  my  throne.  I  therefore  repeat  that,  Andrea,  the  Knight  of  the  poisoned 
chalice  is  free,  and  can  go  without  peril  whither  his  heart  dictates.  The  ruler  of  Gaul  who 
is  not  the  Lord  of  the  unhappy  Knight  will  shew  him  no  violence,  on  pain  of  our  highest 
displeasure." 

Francis  I.  was  enraged  to  a  degree  unusual  with  him.  If  he  had  had  tliQ  power  he 
would  have  struck  the  fool  to  the  earth.  Triboulet  climbed  a  tree,  from  which  altitude  he 
delivered  a  great  speech. 

"iShoot  that  mischievous  monkey  down  with  a  cross-bow!"  cried  the  King,  blind 
^\ith  rage. 

"Hey,  Cousin!"  returned  Triboulet,  "I  will  come  down  again,  for  I  cannot  bear  to 
see  thee  so  pitifully  striving  to  play  my  character.  Leave  the  piqueurs  where  they  are,  Cousin, 
lay  aside  thy  fool's  cliaracter  and  listen  to  a  reasonable  lay. 

As  tliy  fool  flost  thou  not  pay  me, 

Cousin  great,  to  serve  thee  truly? 

Acts  a  fool  then  more  sincerely  ^ 

Than  when  freely  from  his  noddle 

He  speaks,  but  always  falsehood  shuns? 

Prove  that  what  I  've  said  's  untrue, 

Gracious  cousin,  and  I  swear 

That,  for  this  sagacious  gabble, 

Willingly  my  back  shall  suffer. 

But  I  am  a  veracious  preacher. 

Of  buffoons  quite  a  prototype; 

Why  dost  thou  not  thy  pm-se  strings  open 

And  so  reward  me  for  my  art?" 

On  a  signal  from  the  Queen  of  the  feast  the  heralds  hastened  to  Francis  I.  to 
summon  him  before  the  throne.  He  seemed  sullen,  greatly  out  of  humour,  and  while  his  mien 
preserved  its  inaccessible  coldness,  he  suffered  his  head  to  be  crowned  with  the  laurel  wreath. 

Whereupon  the  Queen  said,  addressing  Andrea  del  Sarto: 

"Knight  of  the  Sancgreal,  when  we  in  our  clemency  permit  you  to  return  home,  where 
your  lady  dwells,  still  we  do  not  release  you  from  your  duty  to  come  back  again  to  France." 

"1  thank  you,  Cousin!"  exclaimed  the  King.  "And,  Andrea,  thou  canst  not  deny  that 
thou,  with  thine  own  free  will,  hast  as  firmly  bound  thyself  to  serve  me,  as  though  thou 
wert  tied  hand  and  foot.  Nevertheless,  obedient  to  the  judgment  of  the  Princess  of  Carignan, 
I  permit  your  return  to  Florence.    Kneel,  and  thank  the  Princess  for  her  kindness." 


ANDREA    DEL    SAKTO.  289 

Andrea  obeyed  with  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"The  rest  we  will  settle  between  ourselves.    When  dost  tliou  |iurpose  to  set  off?" 

"Instantly,  if  jiossiblel'  cried  Triboiilet  i'min  a  distance. 

The  Kino-'s  ill  humour  appeased,  the  festival  was  cheerfully  brouj^ht  to  a  close,  and 
late  in  the  evening  forest  savages  carried  the  Ivin^  and  tlie  Princess  on  thnjnes  formed  of 
oak  branches  to  the  castle,  while  the  otlicr  ladic.-  and  gentlemen  surrounded  the  illustrious 
pair,  and  with  large  wax  torches  in  their  liands  iiurried  in  all  directions  through  the  groves. 

On  the  same  evening  Francis  summoned  the  [)ainter  to  his  presence.  The  simple 
promise  to  leave  Italy  within  three  months  at  the  latest  and  retm-n  again  to  Paris,  was  not 
sufficient  for  the  King.  Andrea  was  obliged  to  repeat  his  assurance  before  a  priest,  and  to 
eonfirm  it  by  an  oath  upon' taken  upon  the  Sacrament. 

By  this  time  Francis  seemed  to  have  banished  all  care.  He  gave  the  painter  con- 
siderable commissions  to  purchase  pictures,  cameos,  and  mosaic  work,  for  which  purpose  he 
ordered  a  large  sum  of  money  to  be  given  him.  Two  days  after  the  Feast  of  Love,  Andre 
del  Sarto  started  from  Fontainebleau  on  his  way  homeward. 

His  wife  received  her  victim  with  delight.  A  real  holiday  was  that  day  which  saw 
the  pair  again  united.  The  beautiful  Lucretia  received  her  husband  with  open  arms.  In  the 
excitement  of  his  joy  the  artist  loaded  his  idol  with  costly  presents,  and  made  the  first  week 
of  their  renewed  meeting  an  uninterrupted  feast.  The  period  was  approaching  when,  according 
to  his  promise,  he  must  return  to  France.  Anxiety  and  remorse  of  conscience  came  over  the 
painter  who  had  squandered  away  the  greater  part  of  the  money  intrusted  to  him  by  tiie  King. 

On  the  plea  of  illness  he  hoped  he  might  sojourn  longer  in  Florence.  In  the  mean 
time  he  trusted  to  replace  the  money,  as  he  had  undertaken  works  for  the  monastery  of  the 
Servites.  Signora  Lucretia,  however,  who  had  not  the  most  remote  intention  of  allowing  her 
husband  again  to  travel  to  Paris,  or  even  to  follow  him  thither,  rested  not  till  the  last  French 
coin  was  spent.  Full  of  anxiety,  lest  the  King  of  France  should  prosecute  him  for  breaking 
his  contract,  and  for  his  dishonesty,  Andrea  concealed  himself  in  the  Servite  monastery 
of  the  Annunciation,  where  he  painted  many  parables  from  the  New  Testament,  and  likewise 
"The  Burial  of  Christ"  which  under  the  name  of  the  "Vinta"  has  attained  imiversal  celebrity. 

His  friends,  of  whom  Franciabigio  had  especially  urged  him  to  return  to  Paris, 
supposed  the  painter  already  there.  At  length  when  he  ventured  forth  from  his  concealment, 
he  met  with,  as  usual,  vexation  and  annoyance  from  the  tyranny  of  his  execrable  wife;  and 
when  he  sought  the  consolation  of  his  friends  they  all  turned  from  him,  insulted  his  honour 
as  a  husband,  and  left  him  to  his  fate  as  a  hopeless,  weak-minded  fellow. 

Working  incessantly  and  sinking  deeper  and  deeper  into  melancholy  Andrea  bore  the 
injustice  which  his  wife,  whom  I^p  still  adored,  had  prejiared  for  him.  A^'hcn  the  broken 
constitution  of  Del  Sarto  fell  a  jircy  to  the  raging  [)est  in  Florence  in  looO,  to  which  he  was 
one  of  the  first  victims,  the  heartless  Lucretia,  for  whom  the  poor  man  had  sacrificed  every- 
thing he  possessed,  was  the  first  to  desert  the  unhappy  wretch  and  to  flee.  Domenichino 
Conti,  his  talented  scholar,  closed  his  eyes  and  had  a  gravestone  put  up  in  the  cloister  of  the 
Servite  church.  Another  stone  to  the  memory  of  the  master  Avas  erected  in  the  court  of  this 
cloister  in  1606. 

Andrea  Vannucchi,  Andrea  d'Agnolo  detto  del  Sarto,  or  abbreviated  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
was  born  in  the  year  14S8.  He  was  neither  an  originating  nor  a  creative  genius,  but  nevertheless 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  37 


290  THE    GALLEUIES    OF    VIENNA. 

was  one  of  the  jrroiitct't  nolahilitics  of  the  P^Iorcntinc  scliool.  His  pictures  present  an 
liarnionious  arrangement,  mostly  of  a  plastic,  pleasing,  and  varying  disposition,  and  frequently 
a  charming  nnaffeetedness  in  the  expression  of  the  heads.  The  broad  arrangement  of  the 
drapery,  dear,  as  rich  in  folds,  is  rcmarkahly  l)eautiful. 

This  master  in  all  his  pictures  jireserves  distinguishing  traces  of  tliaf  traditional  tj^pe 
of  figures,  to  which  Leonardo  da  Vinci  only  in  his  best,  that  is,  his  freest  works,  was 
capable  of  soaring.  .After  Da  Vinci's  model,  Andrea  del  Sarto  endeavoured,  in  addition  to 
the  academical  type  of  the  figures,  to  invest  tlicm  with  character  so  as  t()  bestow  upon  them 
a  mure  imposing  efteet.  Without  ever  entirely  departing  from  the  Florentine  school,  he 
succeeded  in  the  representation  of  substantial  forms,  but  he  liad  not  the  power  of  conferring 
individuality  u|)i>n  lluiii.  For  this  reason  his  childrens'  heads  im<iuestionabIy  are  the  best  of 
his  productions.  To  children  nature  itself  gives  only  a  general  expression  of  inward  emotion, 
however  pccidiar  the  I'eatures  ol'  each  child  may  be.  The  individual  peculiarities  of  children 
lie  still  dormant,  and  are  not  capable  of  any  vivacious  expression — so  it  is  with  respect 
to  individuality  in  the  jiictures  of  Andrea  del  Sarto. 

If  we  desire  to  become  fully  acquainted  with  the  peculiarities  of  Andrea  del  Sarto, 
we  must  not  begin  with  the  consideration  of  his  pictures.  We  need  only  for  a  few  days  try  to 
firmly  imprint  upon  our  minds  drawings  after  the  works  of  Lorenzo  Ghiberti,  to  be  able  with 
facility  to  enter  into  the  details  of  the  representation,  and  then,  when  we  reflect  on  a  picture 
of  Del  Sarto's,  recognize  and  feel  how  closely  they  are  bound  up  with  the  peculiar  forms 
of  Ghiberti,  which,  for  their  part,  lean  to  the  conventional  type  of  painting.  Ghiberti  might, 
perha|)s,  have  forced  his  way  as  a  painter  to  the  freedom  of  disposition  and  action  which 
appear  foreshadowed  in  his  figures.  As  a  sculptor,  however,  his  means  in  this  respect  were 
much  narrower. 

Andrea  del  Sarto  did  not  direct  his  exertions  to  give  greater  action  to  his  figures, 
the  drawing  of  which  was  in  Ghiberti's  spirit,  but  sought  to  work  out  their  plastic  element 
to  the  greatest  truth  to  nature.  If  action  had  been  his  object  he  would  have  found  his 
counterpart  in  Luca  Signorelli. 

The  plastic  element  from  its  abstract  repose  was  suitable  to  the  contemplative  mind 
and  the  calm  conception  of  Del  Sarto  which  but  rarely  approached  an  exalted  strain. 
Frequently,  however,  it  gives  itself  up  to  mourning  and  to  scenes  which  excite  ]jain,  as  if 
the  ])ainter  would  give  vent  to  the  oppression  he  felt  at  his  heart.  Pictures  of  this  kind  are 
his  "Pieta,"  in  the  Belvedere  gallery,  the  Fieta  from  the  monastery  of  St.  Pietro  at  Luco 
in  the  Pitti  Palace  in  Florence,  the  wonderfully  awful  head  of  John  the  Baptist  in  the 
Liechtenstein  gallery,  the  Sacrifice  of  Isaac,  and  similar  works. 

But  even  in  such  pictures,  in  which  his  mind  seem*  to  pour  forth  its  lamentations,  he 
could  portray  no  other  face  than  that  of  her  who  had  so  tortured  him.  Lucretia  del  Fede, 
his  wife,  whose  features  are  discovered  in  nearly  all  his  Madonnas,  is,  as  Pieta,  bending 
with  clasped  hands  over  the  dead  body  of  the  Redeemer. 

Tlie  head  of  tlu;  Madonnas  by  Del  Sarto  aflfords  a  proof  of  the  painter's  power  of 
uniting  the  two  styles,  the  conventional  and  the  natural. 

The  Madonnas  and  all  the  other  [iriucipal  female  figures  of  .\iidrea  del  Sarto's 
pictures,  exhibit  the  same  cast  of  features,  and,  although  they  are  unlike  each  other, 
they  still  bear  a  resemblance  to  those  of  his  wife.    A  close  comparison  reconciles  this  seeming 


^ 


0^ 


^ 


^^ 


ANDKEA    I)KI>    SAKTO.  2fll 

contradiction.  Dei  Sarto  iloes  away  with  tiic  monotonous  effect  of  typical  form  l)y  f>iving 
it  some  dofail  or  otiier  of  triitlifiil  nature.  These  details  he  t;ikes  from  his  wife's  face.  One 
Madonna  has  the  charming,  somewhat  pouting,  short  upjier  lip  and  the  play  of  features 
about  the  month  of  the  fair  Lucretia  del  Fede;  another  her  eyes;  a  third  a  peculiar  upward 
look  ot  the  eyes,  &c.  These  ])hysieal  details  snffire  to  pnrfieularise  the  general  expression 
of  the  typical  form,  and  to  produce  a  dissimilarity  in  the  heads. 

The  impression  of  the  portion  of  the  face  taken  from  nature  awakens  in  ns  involuntarily 
the  idea  of  other  parts  of  the  countenance,  which  we  do  not  find  in  the  head  heforc  us. 
What  wc  miss,  we  see  united  in  the  likeness  of  Lucretia.  The  celebrated  Madonna  del 
Sacco  in  "The  Holy  Family  resting  on  their  Journey  into  Egypt,"  an  al  fresco  painted 
master-piece  in  the  Scrvite  monastery  in  Florence,  may  be  regarded  as  that  which  contains 
the  most  detail  of  the  features  of  Lucretia  to  which  belongs  likewise  the  dart-like,  pcnetratinn-, 
insolent  glance. 

Besides  the  "PietiV"  the  Belvedere  gallery  possesses  a  votive  tablet-picture  with 
splendid  figures  by  the  hand  of  Sarto.  The  disposition,  however,  is  very  conventional.  The 
young  Tobias  with  the  fish  is  conducted  by  the  angel  tiabriel,  St.  Lawrence,  and  the 
little  dog.  Aliove,  in  the  clouds,  appears  Christ  with  the  cross.  Below  kneels  the  person 
who  ordered  the  picture.  Another  piece  is  after  the  subject  of  the  Madonna  del  Sacco, 
probably  not  painted  by  Del  Sarto,  but  jierhaps  by  Conti.  Mary  is  seated  on  a  rock  with 
the  Child  on  her  knee,  beside  her  is  Joseph  leaning  on  his  travelling-sack  (sarco).  The 
picture  in  the  Belvedere  gallery— representing  the  Madonna  and  Elizabeth  holding  their 
children  towards  each  other,  while,  in  the  back-ground,  an  angel  plays  the  Hute— is,  of  all 
others,  the  least  cooled  by  the  conventional  element;  its  human  tenor  is  more  lively  con- 
ceived and  comes  home  to  our  feelings  more  than  any  other  picture  by  Del  Sarto. 

The  "Pietii"  of  the  Vienna  gallery,  in  its  effect,  is  often  placed  after  that  in  the  Pitti 
Palace.  The  latter  picture  shews  John  supporting  the  dead  body  of  Jesus;  Mary,  in  an 
almost  kneeling  position,  holds  the  hand,  \\hile  Mary  Magdalene,  absorbed  in  deepest  grief, 
wrings  her  hands  at  the  feet.  In  addition  to  these  figures  we  discern  the  Apostles  Peter  and 
Paul,  and  St.  Catherine  with  the  wheel.  In  this  Florentine  picture  there  is  a  greater  degree 
of  the  physical  introduced  than,  as  a  rule,  Del  Sarto  was  accustomed  to  take  in;  owing  to 
which,  however,  there  is  a  want  of  repose  otherwise  not  peculiar  to  the  works  of  this  master. 
His  stile,  almost  always,  so  preponderates,  that  the  physical  element  docs  not  come  into 
active  operation.  The  immobility  in  the  traditional  style  imparts  repose  to  Del  Sarto's  pictures, 
and  this  element  is  well  suited  to  the  subjects  which  the  pieces  of  the  "Pietii"  represent. 

In  the  body  of  the  Saviour,  the  Vienna  "PietiY"  likewise  discovers,  for  Del  Sarto,  an 
unusually  high  degree  of  truth  to  nature.  This  ser\e3  here  to  render  more  impressive  the 
absence  of  life.  This  repose,  it  is  true,  is  that  of  death,  but  it  harmonizes  with  the  kind 
of  repose  which,  through  the  style  of  treatment,  is  given  to  the  figures  of  the  angel  and  the 
Mater  dolorosa.    The  general  effect  is  concentrated. 

It  is  not  always  that  Del  Sarto  is  so  happy  in  hitting  upon  a  disposition  in  which  the 
typical  and  the  physical  are  equally  balanced.  He  could  not  always  carry  out  the  physical, 
in  accordance  with  his  object,  to  harmonious,  artistical  forms  without  destroying  their  special 
peculiarities.  Del  Sarto  has  too  little  spirituality  to  endow  his  typical  figures  with  a  new 
interest,   which  will   bring   the   ideas  expressed   by   these  figures  into   a    connection,   which 

37* 


292  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

appertains  essentially  to  him,  the  master.  The  power  of  perception  and  combination  wa.i  a 
faculty  which  this  master  possessed  but  in  a  limited  sphere.  Nor  is  his  power  of  construction 
much  greater.    So  nnich  the  more  poweri'ul  his  feeling. 

Del  Sarto  could  not  create  new  figures,  he  could  only  make  use  of  those  already  in 
existence.  New  ideas,  native  to  the  character  of  his  figures,  he  was  not  able  to  call  up; 
neither  could  he  alter  the  meaning  of  the  action  of  his  known  persons.  They  can  luit  jiut 
before  us  what  is  already  known. 

The  scope  for  the  painter  becomes  more  and  more  limited.  All  that  remains  for  him, 
is  to  change  the  conditions  under  which  his  figures  in  their  known  action  present  themselves  — 
of  course  the  outward  conditions,  for  the  inward  are  given  through  the  tenor  of  the  action. 
Had  the  painter  possessed  the  mastery  over  light,  air,  and  colour,  these  means  alone  would 
have  enabled  him  to  supply  these  so  fretjucntly  repeated  figures  and  their  well  known  action, 
with  an  effect  altogether  the  master's  own,  and  to  have  imparted  his  own  feeling  to  the 
spectator. 

Del  Sarlo,  it  is  true,  is  capable  of  giving  an  excellent  lighting  up  to  his  figures,  and 
shews  himself  as  a  good  colorist;  but  his  light  and  colour  have  a  peculiar  affinity.  They  are 
independent  of  the  atmosphere,  and,  consequently,  present  none  of  the  corresponding  varieties 
in  the  local  tints  effected  by  its  changing  properties.  We  see  in  Del  Sarto's  figures  the 
same  as  we  view  in  models  which  are  brought  in  contact  with  a  neutral  light,  and  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  atmosphere.  The  typical  solidity  of  the  figures  suits  perfectly  well 
to  such,  as  it  were,  abstract  light. 

As  the  artist  has  thrown  away  the  means  wliich  would  have  enabled  him  to  step 
between  us  and  his  familiar  figures,  and  to  fix  as  he  pleased  the  various  conditions  of  their 
appearance,  he  has  no  other  resource  tiian  the  situation  wherewith  to  give  expression  to  that 
which  was  peculiar  to  him. 

He  can  but  determine  in  what  manner  his  oft  repeated  figures  shall  perform  an  oft 
repeated  action.  The  essential  is  given;  the  rest  depends  upon  accident — how  the  master  is 
to  express  the  known  sentiments  of  his  figures.  Now,  in  order  to  deal  as  freely  as  possible 
with  this,  the  figures  must  partake  of  something  of  the  master, — the  conditions  for  the 
peculiar  expression  of  feeling.  Del  Sarto  therefore  arbitrarily  furnished  the  ideal  figure 
with  single  features  from  life,  and  in  the  use  of  tiiesc  he  was  enabled  to  convey  a  general 
expression  of  the  characteristic  properties  of  the  typical  figures,  which  create  in  tlie  beholder 
not  only  a  general,  but  a  fixed  interest  according  to  the  intention  of  the  artist. 

The  effect  which  Andrea  del  Sarto  strives  for  in  his  historical  pictures  rests,  therefore, 
decidedly  not  on  the  historical  but  in  the  genre  element.  The  two  j)rincij)les  placed  in 
opposition  are  in  an  outward  manner  coiniecfcd.  In  tlieir  dualily  they  mutually  limit  their 
effects:  they  do  not  melt  into  a  peri'ect  ioiii  i-iii^cinblc:  so  that  there  is  no  striking  impression 
in  the  pictures  of  Del  Sarto.    Even  his  best  pictures  form  no  exception  to  the  rule. 


i 


tx* 


\N 


t 


v¥ 


CHKIST    AND    ST.    .KilIN,    AKl'KH     IXI.XrENICO    I'KTI.  293 


(11  HIST  AND  ST.  JOHN, 


AFTER 

DOMENICO    FETI, 


This  jiaiiitcr,  who  was  surnaiueil  Mantiiano,  was  one  of  tlm  imitators  of  fJiulio 
liomano,  therefore  of  tlie  Rapliaelic  school,  upon  tlie  iiiiportaiice  of  whicli  wc  have  suffioiently 
dilated.  Fcti  possessed  in  great  nieasnre  the  vcisatiiity  of  liis  old  master,  Koniano;  hut  was 
not  endort-ed  with  the  same  Titanic  strength.  Under  Feti's  hands  historical  pieces  in\arial)!y 
diverge  into  charming  genre  pieces,  and  he  was  most  successful  when  he  ])ain(ed  the  graceful 
sports  of  nymphs,  ('u|)ids,  or  other  similar  suhjects,  info  which  he  knew  how  to  hrcathe  a 
sweet  sentimentality.  To  his  most  pleasing  pictures — oflcii  rejjcalcd  hcloug  the  rhililrm 
playing  with  a  lamh,  which  Feli  entitled  Christ  and  St.  .Tolm. 


C   A    R   I   T   A    S, 

AFTEH 

M.  A.  FKANCESCHINl. 


The  correct  severity  of  the  Caracci  very  soon  dwindled  into  effeminacy  in  their 
imitators.  The  scholars  of  the  Caracci,  directed  to  no  great  idea  in  art,  and  exerting 
themselves  only  in  the  formation  of  figures,  cither  fell  into  a  system  of  mannerism  whose 
great  opposition  was  the  eclecticism  of  the  Caracci,  or  brought  naturalistic  elements  into  the 
sphere  of  their  representations,  owing  to  which  the  Caraccis'  fundamental  rule— imitation 
of  the  great  masters — was  scarcely  regarded. 

The  disposition  for  mannerism  sliewcd  itself  in  the  school  under  the  eye  of  Annilial 
Caracci.  It  was  principally  encouraged  hy  Francesco  Albani,  in  another  ^^ay  also  l)y  (iiiido 
Reni,  who  had  already  acquired  a  peculiar  style  of  representation,  before  they  went  over  to 
Rome  in  the  school  of  the  Caracci.  Both  painters  strove  after  the  mild,  the  gentle^()uido 
Reni  taking  the  antirpie  for  his  foundation;  Alhani  translating  the  elevated,  j)ure  style  of 
Raphael  into  the  affected,  and,  instead  of  promoting  an  exaltation  of  feeling,  onlj'  triHing 
with  the  senses. 

Ciiovanni  Maria  (iaili,  da  Bibiena,  the  head  f>f  a  numerous  family  of  Bologneae  artists, 
was  a  faithful  scholar  of  Francesco  Albani.  His  imitations  of  Albani's  manner  of  painting- 
were  most  deceptive.  Marc  Antonio  Franceschini  learnt  the  rudiments  of  art  under  the 
direction  of  Galli-Bibiena,  under  whom  the  talented  young  artist  acquired  the  system  to 
which  he  afterwards  remained  true. 


294  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

An  elder  scholar  of  Galli's,  was  Carlo  Cignani,  on  whom  devolved  the  instruction  of 
the  younger  pupils,  viz.,  Fernando  Galli,  son  of  Maria  Giovanni,  and  likewise  Franceschini. 
However  this  master  may  have  been  abused,  Cignani's  power  of  representation  is  extra- 
ordinary. He  designed  with  the  greatest  facility,  possessed  a  feeling  for  forcible,  animate 
i'orni,  and,  though  in  colouring  frequently  shallow  and  trivial,  lie  was  sometimes  brilliant 
too,  if  not  solid  or  altogether  excellent.  His  weakness  betrays  itself  in  the  trifling  intrinsic 
meaning  of  his  pictures,  which  ai'e  mostly  defective  in  expression,  and  the  heads  are  wanting 
in  individual  character  and  variety. 

Franceschini  was  the  faithful  scholar  of  Carlo  Cignani,  whom  he  learnt  perfectly  to 
imitate.  He  soon,  however,  became  dissatisfied  with  the  colouring  of  his  master  and  took 
Guido  Reni  as  his  pattern.  He  became  a  finished  painter  and  parted  from  Cignani,  who 
had  become  his  truest  friend,  in  1702;  accepted  a  summons  to  Genoa,  where  besides  other 
works,  he  painted  the  ceiling  of  the  great  council-chamber.  In  these  pictures  he  glorified 
the  history  of  the  Republic,  blending  the  actual  with  the  allegorical.  His  compositions  are 
said  to  have  been  astonishing,  and  amongst  the  figures  there  were  many,  which,  according 
to  the  judgment  of  Anton  Raphael  Mengs,  called  to  mind  the  finest  imagery  of  the  time 
of  the  great  Urbiner.  This,  the  greatest  work  of  Franceschini,  was  destroyed  by  the  con- 
flagration of  the  building  in  1777. 

In  1711  Franceschini  left  Genoa  for  Rome  to  supply  the  cartoons  for  the  magnificent 
mosaic  work  in  the  dome  of  St.  Peter's.  In  the  Eternal  City  he  formed  a  friendship  with 
many  great  people  and  artists,  among  the  latter  with  Carlo  Maratti.  He  was  once  more 
attracted  to  Genoa  after  which  he  went  permanently  to  reside  in  Bologna,  the  city  of  his 
birth,  and  definitively  refused  the  invitations  which  called  him  to  Madrid,  and  to  the  court 
of  that  lover  of  the  arts,  the  Elector  of  the  Palatinate. 

The  flattering  offers  of  Prince  Liechtenstein,  however,  induced  Franceschini  to  go  to 
Vienna,  and  to  this  circumstance  one  of  the  most  splendid  temples  of  art  in  the  Austrian 
imperial  city  is  indebted  for  one  of  the  most  remarkable  portions  of  its  decorations.  The 
Liechtenstein  Gallery  contains  several  of  Franceschini's  ceiling  pictures,  which  are  spirited 
and  are  admirably  drawn,  although  at  first  sight  not  particularly  clear  in  design.  This  gallery 
embraces  the  most  numerous  series  of  Franceschini's  easel  pieces — forty-four  pictures  which 
taken  collectively  awaken  a  great  idea  of  the  imaginative  powers  and  the  vast  properties 
of  representation  possessed  by  the  painter,  whose  fate  it  was  to  be  undervalued  more  than 
to  be  rightly  appreciated. 

Although  Franceschini  seems  to  be  inexhaustible  in  his  compositions,  he  fails  in  the 
Individual  characteristic  of  his  figures.  He  disdained  to  apply  to  nature  itself  for  the  purpose 
of  conveying  the  characteristic  features  in  his  figures  into  his  pictures.  He  consequently 
falls  into  a  certain  monotonous  treatment  of  his  idealized  forms,  and  deviates  for  the  most 
part  from  genuine  nature.  These  figures  express  their  sentiments  more  through  their  attitudes 
than  from  their  mien,  and  the  beholder  nnist  be  content  with  admiring  only  their  most 
attractive  superficiality. 

Franceschini  was  very  productive.  Excepting  in  Italy  his  works  are  not  frequently 
to  be  met  with.  His  '"Caritas"  in  Vienna  belongs  to  that  period  when  he  very  palpably 
emulated  Guido  Reni.  He  is,  however,  more  flowing  than  his  prototype,  and  the  antique 
is  less  perceptible. 


F  Pvtrurji^ 


.^..-^a/z^^z^/z^^ci^  ^..i^^  /^z<id^ii^i.i^^ei&. 


BruckiiVerM  d  EnShsclien  ifun. 


NEAPOLITAN    OIKI,.    AI'TKK     I'.     I'll'NEK.  295 

One  of  Fi'iUK'Cscliiiiis  finc:>t  pictures  is  in  (lie  I>rcs(leii  (iiillcry  his  Penitent  Mii^daieii. 
She  has  cast  avay  the  symbols  of  earthly  joy,  the  costly  attire,  the  mirror,  in  order  with 
a  rod  to  sconrtje  the  njijicr  ]iart  of  her  hare  hody  till  the  hlood  trickles  down.  Half 
faintinj;',  the  penitent  siidvs  in  the  arms  of  her  attendant,  while  another  female  figure 
promises  her  consoling  help  from  above.  This  picture  exhibits  no  ascetic  severity,  and  is 
conceived  quite  in  the  modern  style.  The  flesh  of  the  penitent  is  excpiisitely  painted,  to 
which  the  dark  colour  of  a  negro,  who  greedily  i)ieks  up  the  discarded  finery,  affords  a 
striking  contrast. 

Fruncescliini  died  in  Bologna  in  1729  at  the  age  of  87  years. 


NEAPOLITAN    (URL, 


F.     P  I  T  N  E  K. 


Like  all  other  pictures  by  this  artist  "The  Neapolitan  Girl" — at  a  well— is  sensibly 
pleasing  in  form  and  expression.  Simple  as  the  subject  is,  still  its  perfect  delineation,  and 
the  plaintive  feeling  which  prevails,  render  it  an  object  of  increasing  interest  on  every 
repeated  view  of  the  picture. 


PRINCE  RUPERT  OF  THE  PALATINATE, 


AKTKR 

ANTON    VAN    DYCK. 


■Prince  Eupert  of  the  Palatinate  was  one  of  the  most  extraordinary  persons  that 
took  part  in  the  singularly  adventurous  and  heroic  deeds  for  which  the  seventeenth  century 
was  so  remarkable.  Intellectual,  ardent,  brave,  with  an  active  turn  for  the  arts  and  sciences, 
appears  this  scion  of  the  Bohemian  King,  the  unfortunate  Frederick  of  the  Palatinate,  and 
Elizabeth  the  beautiful  daughter  of  the  King  of  England,  for  whose  rights  the  Duke  Christian 
of  Brunswick  unfolded  his  banner  with  the  inscription  "Pour  Dieu  et  pour  Elle.'' 

Already  in  early  youth  Kupert's  path  was  beset  with  dangers  and  adventures.  The 
boy  with  his  parents,  his  brothers,  and  sisters,  was  cast  forth  from  the  brilliant  court  of  the 
Elector  of  Heidelberg,  the  paradise  on  the  Neckar,  to  receive  in  Bohemia  a  momentous 
homage  as  one  of  the  heirs  to  the  Czechic  King's  throne. 


296  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Then  followed  the  terrible  battle  of  Prague  which  despoiled  Frederick  V.  of  his 
lands  and  reduced  him  to  an  adventurous  fugitive.  In  this  forlorn  condition  he  was  deserted 
in  the  most  cowardl^^  manner  by  King  James  I.,  the  father  of  his  wife,  and  was  obliged 
to  fly  from  one  country  to  another.  It  not  uiifrequcntly  happened  that  the  unfortunate 
pair  were  scarcely  able  to  raise  sufficient  means  to  provide  equipages  for  themselves  and 
their  family.  In  a  wretched  bark,  tossed  about  on  the  Zuyder  Sea  in  the  most  fearful 
winter  weather,  Rupert's  brother  was  drowned  before  the  eyes  and  amidst  the  lamentations 
of  the  unhappy  members  of  the  Prince's  family.  An  attempt  to  assassinate  Prince 
Frederick  V.  and  liis  consort  was  made,  and,  truly,  the  world  was  a  school,  in  which  a  man 
less  gifted  by  nature  with  innate  courage  than  he  possessed,  would  be  cried  up  as  a  hero. 
Scarcely  had  Prince  Rupert  attained  his  seventeenth  year  before  he  appeared  on  the  scene 
of  battle  against  the  imperial  troops,  and  in  1638  was  made  prisoner  by  the  enemy;  till  the 
year  1642  he  continued  in  imprisonment  which  was  often  rigorous — then  he  was  liberated. 
The  story  of  this  imprisonment  would  suffice  for  a  romance. 

The  Prince  hastened  to  England  with  the  hope  of  meeting  with  assistance.  There  his 
uncle  Charles  I.  had  come  to  the  throne — a  monarch  pressed  hard,  and  who  with  difficulty 
could  defend  himself  against  his  own  subjects.  Originally  it  was  Rupert's  lot  to  defend  the 
freer  intellectual  tendency  to  which  his  parents  had  become  sacrifices;  circumstances  brought 
him  into  the  camp  of  those  who  in  England  endeavoured  to  support  a  rigid  absolute 
government,  and  to  exercise  a  pressure  on  the  consciences  of  others  almost  as  great  as  was 
to  be  found  in  C'atholic  lands. 

Prince  Rupert  was  soon  recognized  as  one  of  the  best  commanders  of  the  Royal 
troops.  He  was,  at  all  events,,  the  most  chivalrous  of  those  proud  knights  who  defended 
the  arrogated  crown  prerogatives  and  feudal  rights  against  the  citizens  and  the  people.  The 
Prince  here  appears  in  a  doubtful  light,  which  his  own  freedom  of  opinion  cannot  reconcile 
to  our  feelings.  Viewed  in  the  most  favourable  light,  Prince  Rupert  iir  his  battles  on  English 
ground  was  a  soldier,  to  whom  it  was  indifferent  on  which  side  he  fought,  so  long  as  he 
could  indulge  his  impulse  for  valorous  acts,  and  satisfy  his  desire  of  gaining  military  renown. 

At  Worcester,  Kingston,  Bristol,  and  Newark,  Rupert  fought  with  brilliant  success;  but 
at  Marston  Moor  and  Naseby  he  succumbed  to  the  fanatical  armies  of  the  Independents  and 
was  forced,  after  a  brave  defence,  to  surrender  Bristol  to  Fairfax.  For  this  last  misfortune 
of  war  the  Prince,  at  the  instance  of  his  numerous  enviers  in  the  Royal  army,  suffered  a 
degrading  punishment.  The  stranger,  who  by  his  sword  had  raised  himself  to  the  post 
of  Lord  High  Admiral,  and  had  even  been  raised  to  the  dignity  of  Duke  of  Cumberland, 
was  stripped  of  all  his  honours  and  ordered  to  quit  the  country  lor  ever. 

Flowever,  after  the  execution  of  Charles  I.,  RupTn-t  returned  in  order  to  lead 
the  mutiny  of  the  fleet  in  favour  of  Charles  II.  Ireland,  on  whose  rising  everything 
depended,  had  not  power  sufficient  to  revenge  the  streams  of  blood  which  Cromwell  had 
here  shed.  Rupert,  although  an  able  captain  on  land,  was  less  eminent  as  an  admiral.  The 
waves  and  storms  of  the  Channel,  which  had  already  destroyed  so  many  well  planned  naval 
expeditions,  proved  so  luifavourable  to  him,  that  after  a  severe  loss  he  was  compelled, 
in  order  to  save  himself,  to  sail  to  the  West  Indies.  There  also  the  Admiral  found  no 
asylum,  he  therefore  sailed  to  France  and  delivered  over  the  remains  of  the  fleet  which 
Charles  H.  had  sold  to  the  French  nation. 


JnlD^  V^jl])U<k  : 


r^en.  d&'F/al-/ 


PKiNci':  KCi'Kur  or  the  i'alatixa'ii:,  afikk  antdn  \an  dvck.  297 

'I'lic  tcniiiniitidii  of  tlio  Prince's  career  was  ricli  in  <iiit\var(l  liDiioiirs.  After  the 
Ke.^tdratiiiii,  C'liiirles  II.  called  liim  to  lOn^Hand  and  Ljave  him  llie  eoimnaiid  of  the  lli'ct.  In 
KiTH,  he  eonimandcd  the  allied  Knglish  and  French  armada  ajrainst  the  Dutch:  this  cx]iedition, 
however,  ('ffected  hut  little.  His  indifferent  success  this  time  may  he  attrihiited  to  his 
disinclination  to  assist  in  the  sulijection  of  a  people  who  were  strujj;j.dinj^'  for  freedom. 
^\'earied  hy  the  intriffues  of  his  adversaries  nf  couit,  he  acceiitcd  the  office  of  Governor 
of  the  Royal  Castle  at  Windsor  and  lived  in  the  closest  retirement.  Kni|)loyinj^  his  time  in 
the  sttiuy  of  cluMiiistry  and  physics,  the  Prince  niaile  many  nseii|l  <liscoverics.  Amunj^st 
others  he  discovered  the  composition  called  after  him  "Prince's  Metal."  To  Rupert  may 
also  he  assi<Tned  the  merit  of  having'  introduced  into  Eni,dand  the  art  of  ''mezzo  tinto" 
enfjravinj.;,  invented  hy  the  llessiiin  Lieutenant  Colonel  Lndwiir  von  Siegen. 

Prince  Rupert  met  this  officer  in  illtif  in  I'n'iissels,  and  as  both  were  animated  with  a 
like  interest  for  the  art,  th('  Prince  soon  hecame  M('(|tiainte(l  with  the  secret  hithertcj  preserved 
hy  Von  Siegen.  The  two  practised  their  exj)eriments  together,  hut  the  technical  execution 
and  the  preparation  soon  hecame.  too  tedious  for  the  prince,  and  there  seems  to  be  some 
ground  in  the  tradition  handed  down  to  us  by  Sandrart,  Vertue,  and  Descamps,  that 
Rupert  called  in  the  services  of  an  assistant.  This  person,  to  whom  the  Prince,  imder  the 
vow  of  strictest  secresy,  couimunicated  the  discovery,  was  the  painter  Wallerant  Vaillant,  who 
from  KJSf)  executed  plates  in  the  same  nianiuM',  and  through  him  the  art  became  known  in 
Holland  and  Germany. 

It  was  not  till  the  year  Hilil  that  this  style  was  made  known  in  England  by  the 
Prince.  The  brilliant  .situation  which  the  J'rince  held  by  no  means  acted  as  an  ini])edinient 
to  his  study  of  art;  he  continued  his  endeavours  to  bring  it  to  a  higher  degree  of  perfection. 
He  imparted  his  secret  to  J.  Evelyn  who  was  then  preparing  a  history  of  the  art  of 
engraving  on  copjier  in  England:  this  work  afterwards  appeared  under  the  title  of  "Sculj>tiira, 
or  the  history  and  art  of  chalcography  and  engraving  on  copper.  To  which  is  annexed  a 
new  manner  of  engraving,  or  Mezzo-Tin  to,  communicated  by  his  Hyghness  Prince  Rupert 
to  the  author  of  his  treatise.    London,  1()()2,  8.'" 

The  Prince  shewed  Evelyn  his  [)lates,  and  on  the  13th  of  March,  llJtil,  made  him 
practically  acquainted  with  the  process;  in  all  probability  through  the  |)late  of  the  Head  of  the 
Hangman  which  a])i)earcd  in  the  work  befin-e  mentioned.  Evelyn  was  so  wonder-struck  and 
80  loud  in  his  praise  that  the  attention  of  England  was  roused  by  the  Prince's  art,  and  he 
was  generally  reputed  as  the  inventor  of  it.  But  his  inventive  powers  were  really  great  and  his 
endeavours  were  ever  directed  to  new  discoveries.  After  the  mezzo-tint  j)rocess  became  known 
he  seems  to  have  taken  but  little  further  interest  in  it,  for  his  last  plate  bears  the  date  of 
1664.  Instead  of  this  he  turned  his  attention  to  hydraulics,  to  the  construction  of  astronomical 
instruments,  to  the  manufactory  of  jiowder,  the  melting  of  metals,  the  casting  of  guns, 
the  fabrication  of  glas.s,  &c.,  in  all  which  he  made  the  most  successful  attempts.  In  her 
"Memoires  et  Fragmens  historiques"  which  has  gone  through  many  editions — the  last 
appeared  in  1832 — the  Duchess  of  Orleans  says,  "I  have  heard  in  London,  that  they  have 
looked  upon  my  deceased  uncle,  I'rince  Rupert  of  the  Palatinate,  as  a  w'izard,  and  his 
large  black  dog  as  the  devil,  and  that  every  enemies'  regiment  retreated  when  he  presented 
himself  before  them."  This  renowned  and  noble  magician,  whose  life  in  peace  and  in  war 
was  equally  celebrated,  died  at  his  residence  in  Spring  Gardens,  in  the  year  1682. 

Oallorios  uf  Vicniwi.  3y 


298  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

Tlie  prince  was  an  excellent  workman  with  the  etchinp;  j)oint  and  the  graver.  Of  the 
plates  executed  by  his  own  hand  the  following  arc  especially  fine.  "The  Beggar,"  a 
"Horseman  in  a  Cloak"  in  a  very  picturesque  landscape,  "The  Two  Soldiers,"  "The  Hermit," 
"Portrait  of  Tizian."  An  engraving  by  W.  Vaillant  represents  the  Prince  as  "The  Inventor 
of  Mczzo-Tinto." 

Prince  Rupert  in  his  youthful  days  was  upon  a  very  intimate  footing  with  Van  Dyck. 
The  great  Netherlander  is  said  to  have  given  instruction  in  ])ainfing  to  the  Prince, — nearer 
researches,  however,  prove  that  Rupert  was  merely  a  self  tauglit  artist.  Rupeft  soon 
east  aside  painting,  in  order  to  devote  himself  to  drawing,  wliich  he  could  even  practise  in 
the  camp. 


I  N  N  0  C  E  N  C  E, 

AFTER 

LELIO     ORSI. 


Orsi  belongs  to  the  class  of  emulators  of  Correggio,  to  whom,  as  far  as  regards  the 
melting  of  the  colours  into  the  stronger  tones,  they  come  very  near;  but  in  the  fine,  airy 
tints,  which  vanish  into  high  lights,  they  are  deficient.  Orsi's  drawing  is  good,  though 
somewhat  void  of  action,  lor — unlike  Correggio — he  endeavours  to  avoid  fore-shortening. 
The  expression  is  soit,  at  the  same  time  not  altogether  characteristic.  Orsi  died  in  his 
seventy-sixth  year. 


VENUS   AND    ADONIS, 


AFTEK 

A.    C  A  B  A  C  C  I. 


Wc  have  now  in  view  the  creative  genius  oi  the  Caracci  trefoil  Annibal.  Aiinilial 
possessed  a  greater  power  of  perception  than  either  of  his  two  colleagues  in  the  work  ul  art- 
relbrmation-^Lodovico  and  Agostino  Caracci. 

Lodovico  appears  more  as  an  artist  who  produced  his  work  after  calm  reflection. 
With  iiim  the  circumstances  under  which  he  introduces  his  figure  ])lay  an  active  ])art. 
Lodovico  seldom  was  enabled  to  penetrate  the  depth  of  mind  and  feeling  of  the  |>crsons 
re[)resented.     He  always  remains  but  a  short  span  distant  from  allegory  (in  a  general  sense). 


^'^z^no^^'^zcey. 


achenKunatanelaltvAHPajne  LeipiiJ  ftDresden 


VENt'S  AND  ADONIS.  AKTHK  A.  CAKACCI.  299 

Ilis  fijriires  are  chiefly  bearers  of  an  idea— paficiice,  pity,  devotional  oontemplativeness,  &.C. 
The  finer  idealism  escapes  his  oltservation.  His  pictures  cons('(|ut'iitlv  leave  a  cold  impression 
upon  the  spectator. 

Apostino  was  a  theorist,  a  mathematician,  master  of  perspective,  and  as  a  correct 
draughtsman  inmiaculate.  He  was  as  it  were  horn  to  be  a  teaciier.  When  speakini^  of  the 
Caracci  school — "the  leader  of  the  new  sphere  of  art"  —the  Aceademia  degli  incamviinati — 
we  directly  tliink  of  Lodovico  and  Agostino.  Annibal  through  his  crcnrious  had  obtained  a 
reputation  abroad  for  this  school. 

Annibal  was  of  a  violent  character,  a  kind  of  battering-ram.  Meditation  was  not  in 
his  way,  and  tiie  greater  the  progress  of  the  learned  Agostino,  the  more  he  was  made  the 
object  of  Annibal's  derision.  His  two  more  gcotle  colleagues,  without  him,  would  have 
remained  at  peace  with  the  mannerists,  Annibal,  however,  took  care  tiiat  tlie  breach  whicli 
divided  the  opposing  parties  should  not  be  amicably  briilgcd  over. 

Althougli,  like  his  colleagues,  he  strictly  adhered  to  the  system  of  the  academical 
model,  still  Annibal  seems  to  have  possessed  greater  freedom  than  the  other  two  Caracci. 
He  endues  his  figures  with  a  degrec'of  sentiment  of  whicli  tlic  nthers  were  incapable.  He 
alone  had  the  tact  of  imparting  to  his  forms,  at  least  an  appearance  of  originality,  while,  in 
fact,  they  differed  very  little  from  their  protoypes. 

This  appearance  of  originality  lies,  independently  of  excellent  judgment  in  the  grouping 
and  keeping  of  his  figures,  in  his  colouring,  which  is  exactly  what  is  wanting  in  the  other 
Caraccis.  The  antique  sculptures  are  never  better  brought  into  action,  without  being  divested 
of  their  fine,  harmonious  repose — as  in  Michel  Angclo — than  by  Annibal  Caracci.  If 
iVnnibal  had  it  not  in  his  power  to  give  the  primitive  ideality  he  certainly  furnishes  us  with  a 
very  higlily  finished  copy  of  it.  In  his  style  of  painting  Annibal  was  uncertain,  simply  because 
he  endeavoured  to  arrange  his  colouring  according  to  the  character  of  the  object  represented. 

For  the  one  form  the  cldaro  seuro  of  Allegri  was  more  suitable,  for  the  other  the 
brilliant  local  tints  of  a  Giorgone;  again,  lor  a  third  the  broad  splendour  of  a  Veronese  was 
appropriate.  At  one  period  Aimiljal  strove  to  amalgamate  the  peculiar  excellencies  of  tlie 
three  great  colourists,  and  the  pictures  of  that  time,  considering  the  object  in  view,  the  real 
painting,  may  be  counted  as  his  most  effective  ones. 

By  degrees,  however,  Annibal  apin-oached  nearer  the  sjjhere  of  the  ideal  and  the 
stylistic.  He  became  sobered  down,  and  his  mind  turned  more  and  more  from  the  outward 
alluring  manner  of  representation.  It  was  no  longer  necessary  for  him  to  give  expression 
to  his  meaning  through  the  medium  of  colour.  The  temperate  style  of  Raphael,  and  even 
I  the  capriciousness  in  Michel  Angelo's  disposition  of  light  and  coloui' — if  with  the  latter  one 
dare  venture  to  speak  of  colour — seemed  in  him  most  perfectly  to  coincide  with  the  highest 
pretensions  of  style.  His  frescoes  lost  little  by  Annibafs  ]irinciple  which  gradually  gained 
ground:  he  entirely  turned  his  back  upon  nature's  truth,  and  regarded  the  figures  of  art  as 
the  only  legitimate  agents  in  the  sphere  of  art.  So  much  the  more  was  this  the  case, 
however,  with  regard  to  his  easel  pictures. 

Li  these  the  colouring  by  degrees  became  stri"kingly  corporeal.    The  different  tints 
were  laid  on  coarsely,  seldom  sufficientlj'  graduated  or  blended,  and  only  thin  layers  of  ultra-  " 
marine,  unsuited  to  the  purpose,  served  to  point  out  to  the  spectator  that  he  was  to  consider 
the  hardness  of  colour  as  harmoniously  associated.    The  Eclectics  who  were  sworn  enemies 

38* 


30()  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

to  all  one-sidediK'^s  of  style,  iit  last  prodm-ed  pictures  which  were  rather  symbolical  of  the 
subjects  to  be  represented,  than  representations  of  the  objects  themselves. 

In  Rome  Annilial  reached  the  height  of  his  reputation.  In  the  Farnese  J'alace  he 
produced  his  fresco  masterpiece.  In  this,  too,  he  faithfully  adhered  to  his  princijile  of  lakius 
the  great  masters  for  his  model;  for  the  whole  arrangement  of  the  space  in  the  Faiiie^e 
saloon  is  the  same  as  that  of  the  Sii^tine  chapel.  In  the  two  large  arched  spaces  and  in 
the  vaulted  ceiling  arc  represented  the  Triumph  of  Bacchus  and  Ariadne;  the  history 
of  Galatea,  of  C'e])halus,  and  Eos  (Aurora).  Then  appear  Juno  with  the  girdle  of  Vemis, 
Di.ina-Sclene  and  Endymion,  Hercules  and  lole,  Venus  and  Anehises,  &c.  Smaller  pictiues 
between  these  larger  representations  serve  to  assist  in  carrying  out  the  history  to  a  greater 
extent,  illustrating  the  world  of  Ovid  and  his  mythogra])hic  companions.  In  these  pieces 
Annil.al  presents  a  luxurious,  cheerful  conception  of  life,  and  the  power  which  beauty  has 
over  the  human  heart.  The  grouj)s  are  very  pleasing;  the  dispositions  are  various  and 
exhihit  a  grciit  deal  of  fore-shortening;  the  drawing  is  altogetiier  not  only  correct,  but  imhl 
and  frequently  harmoniously  poetical.  But,  at  the  same  time,  we  find  no  jidint  which  works 
U]ion  the  mind  with  irresistible  power,  such  as  dwells  in  Kaphael's  paintings  in  the  Vatican, 
neither  is  there  an  impressive  sentiment  as  in  Allegri's  classical  compositions  in  tlie  cloister 
of  St.  Paula  in  Modena,  nor — to  come  to  a  nearer  parallel — the  joyous,  spirited  freedom, 
the  inmiortal  grace,  the  breath  of  poetry  peculiar  to  Kaphael's  twelve  i)ictiires  from  the  lile 
of  Psyche. 

The  master  worked  seven  years  on  these  Farnese  jiictures.  Altliouiiii  in  the  sketching 
he  was  assisted  by  Lodovico  and  also  by  Agostino  Caracci,  and,  when  the  pictuies  were 
more  advanced,  some  of  his  scholars  were  employed  on  the  undertaking,  still  the  chief  part 
of  the  work  devolved  upon,  and  was  executed  by,  Annibal. 

At  length  this  extensive  work  was  com])leted,  and  the  moment  arrived  when  the 
Cardinal  Odoardo  Farnese,  Duke  of  Castro,  was  to  renuinerate  the  artist  for  his  labours. 
What  hajipened  to  prejudice  the  Cardinal  against  the  [lainter  is  not  now  to  he  ascertained; — 
enough,  he  dismissed  Annibal  in  disgrace,  with  tiie  coldest  disdain,  and  for  his  many  years' 
exertions  ordered  the  painter  to  be  paid  the  contemptibly  trifling  sum  of  fi\e  hundred  ducats, 
or,  according  to  other  accounts,  the  same  amount  of  dollars  only. 

The  general  supjwsition  is  that  this  insidting  treatment  of  the  artist  was  caused 
by  the  intriguing  machinations  of  a  Spaniard,  Juan  de  Castro,  the  favourite  of  the  Duke 
Cardinal.  It  is  sufficiently  authenticated  that  Odoardo  had  a  favourite,  that  his  name  was 
Gian,  and  that  this  same  person  was  a  native  of  Castro,  the  duchy  of  the  Cardinal,  which, 
mortgaged  in  the  year  1640  to  the  Monte  di  Pieta,  was  taken  possession  of  by  Pope 
Urban  VIII.  (Maffeo  Barberini).  What  were  the  wiles  set  in  play  by  this  favourite,  cannot  be 
discovered.  The  strong  presumption  is  that  a  lady  was  im|)licated  in  the  affair;  fiir  Annibal  w  as 
a  passionate  admirer  of  the  fair  sex  and  was  always  invohed  in  some  love  intrigue  or  oihir. 

After  the  degrading  rebuff  .wnich  he  experienced  from  the  Cardinal,  iVnnibals  nature 
was  entirely  changed.  At  first  he  l)oiled  over  with  rage,  threw  away  his  palette  and  brushes, 
and  declared  that  he  would  never  again  touch  either.  He  was  afterwards  seized  with  a  fit 
sof  deep  melancholy.  He  commenced  a  few  easel  pictures;  but  the  canker  iiail  peiieiiated 
his  heart;  he  sank  on  a  bed  of  sickness  and  died  shortly  aftirwards,  in  Uilill,  scarcely  forty- 
nine  years  old. 


Ucmmxco  raz  /< 


^/^k^j^ss^i^c^j^sig^^ 


>!{unafen3ta]tvAHPavne,Tr6i-p7-i{  ftDresien 


VERONESE    MdXEY    CHANGERS,    AFTER    DOMEMCO    FETI.  301 

The  Dresden  (iallery  contains  one  of  tlie  best  pictures  by  this  artist — St.  Hoclic. 
The  figure  .-lands  on  a  pedestal  under  a  magnificient  building.  He  has  a  purse  in  his  han<l 
and  distributes  alms.  The  indigent  press  forward.  In  the  foreground  appears  a  group  ol 
poor  families,  who  count  the  money  they  have  received. 

In  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin,  by  Annibal,  some  single  parts  are  exquisite,  but  the 
picture,  taken  as  a  whole,  is  couAentional  and  cold.  The  Holy  Virgin  is  soaring  in  a  glory, 
while  angels  with  musical  instruments  hover  around  her.  Beneath  is  seen  the  grave, 
surrounded  by  broken  pillars.  The  Apostles  are  gathered  round  the  grave  and  behold  the 
ascent  to  heaven  with  adoration  and  astonishment. 

As  a  specimen  of  fine  drawing  and  delicate  grace  we  may  mention  the  Virgin  standing 
before  a  table  on  which  is  sitting  the  Infant  Jesus.  In  front  of  the  table  stands  the  infant 
John  the  Baptist  with  a  swallow,  which  he  is  shewing  to  the  Mother  and  Child. 

The  same  figures  appear,  though  under  a  somewhat  different  ai-rangement,  in  one 
of  Annibal's  pictures  preserved  in  the  Royal  Collection  in  London.  The  Infant  Jesus  lies 
on  a  white  cloth  ^vhich  is  on  the  table.  The  Mother  has  removed  the  veil  and  shews  the 
Child  to  John  warning  him  at  the  same  time  with  her  upraised  finger — as  John  is  stretching 
out  his  arm — not  to  touch  the  Infant  Jesus. 

"Venus  and  Adonis"  is  esteemed  one  of  the  finest  j)ictures  of  Annibal's  best  period. 
The  young  hunter  surprises  the  Goddess- — a  splendid  figure  with  an  especially  charming 
countenance — at  a  spring  under  myrtles.  Her  eyes  shew  that  she  is  not  able  to  withstand 
Adonis.    This  Adonis  is,  however,  kept  very  undecided,  indeed  it  may  be  called  weak. 

It  is  interesting  to  compare  this  picture  of  Annibal's  with  the  "Venus  and  Adonis" 
by  Tizian,  in  the  Belvedere  gallery,  in  which  Adonis,  smiling,  is  tearing  himself  from  the 
urnis  of  Venus. 


VERONESE  MONEY  CHANGERS, 


AFTER 

DOUENICO    FETI. 


Feti  was  decidedly  more  qualified  ibr  the  repre  entation  of  genre  than  for  historical 
pieces,  which  he  always  treated  as  genre;  they  therefore  present  an  evident  want  of  force. 
But  when  Feti  condescends  to  verge  from  the  ideal,  which  he  held  to  be  his  forte,  and 
seizes  a  subject  of  real  life,  he  is  decided,  correct,  and  characteristic,  of  which  his  bargaining 
money  changers  offers  satisfactory  proof. 


302  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


JESUS    CHRIST, 


AFTER 

ANTONIO    ALLEGBI. 


ro;:l(l  the  excellence  of  a  painter  1)6  estimated  by  the  amount  of  admiration  which 
his  works  have  created,  Antonio  Allegri,  named  after  his  birth-place  Correggio,  would  be 
the  greatest  master  that  any  school  ever  produced.  Ra])hael  appears  in  his  full  majesty  to 
those  only  who  are  gifted  with  an  extraordinary  degree  of  understanding  and  sentiment. 
The  greater  number  have  found  the  fine,  artistic  proportions  of  his  creations  ineffective,  and 
other  worthies  there  are,  who  openly  avow  that  a  traditional  over-e.stimation  is  the  basis 
of  the  "Rai)hael-id(ilatry." 

Michel  Angelo  has  astonished  thousands  of  artists  by  his  magnificent  corporeality, 
and  few  painters  have  visited  Rome  without  adding  to  their  portfolios  a  few  sketches  from 
Buonaroti.  IMost  of  these  young  artists  regard  Michel  Angelo  as  the  CEdipu.s,  whose  chief 
merit  consists  in  the  solving  of  anatomical  problems.  Besides  this,  the  opinion  is  current 
that  the  mere  jilaying  with  material  power  as  exemplified  by  Michel  Angelo,  does  not  conceal 
the  heaviness  and  coarseness  of  the  matter,  but  that  these  properties  are  so  paramount  that 
all  spirit  and  feeling  are  lost.  If  Buonaroti,  the  most  spiritual  of  all  painters,  be  so  depreciated 
by  the  young  artists  themselve.s,  that  they  recognize  in  him  nothing  more  than  a  modeller, 
it  is  but  reasonable  that  other  good  people,  who  know  as  much  about  modelling  as  of  the 
laws  by  which  the  motions  of  a  water-spout  are  caused,  find  the  painter  insipid. 

With  Tizian  the  multitude  are  less  likely  to  mi.«judge.  "One  still  sees  the  why  and 
the  wherefore"  as  the  Scholar  in  "Faust"  says.  Taken  altogether,  however,  we  do  not  in 
his  pictures  get  hold  of  the  master.  He  works  u])on  us  through  his  subject  only,  which  by 
striving  after  illusion  he  brings  as  near  to  us  as  possil)le.  The  more  entirely  he  arrives  at 
truthful  nature,  and  gives  independent  animation  to  his  figures,  so  much  the  more*  recedes 
the  master,  whose  best  works  seem  to  have  had  their  origin  in  themselves.  It  remains  left 
to  us  to  form  our  own  ideas  and  fieelings  concerning  the  picture.  For  many  educated 
persons  this  is  not  altogether  convenient.  We  could  very  well  make  use  of  an  interpreter 
who  would  kindly  bring  about  a  better  understanding  between  Tizian's  figures  and  the 
spectator.  The  key,  at  least,  of  the  melody  of  the  sentiment  must  be  given  which  the 
individual  pictures  are  intended  to  awake;  otherwise  it  may  very  easily  happen  that  the 
music  in  the  mind  of  the  beholder  remains  dormant;  he  merely  views  the  piece  without  its 
making  any  impres.sion  upon  his  senses,  however  excellent  the  pictures  of  the  great  Venetian. 

Correggio's  pictures  wear  a  different  aspect.  He  is  the  painter  that  everybody  under- 
stands. Agreeableness  of  form  reigns  paramount  in  his  works.  He  never  over-exerts  himself 
as  to  the  intellectual  contents  of  his  representation,  but  works  up,  into  an  intelligible  form, 
ideas  which  have  become  familiar  to  all.  His  pieces  are  sufficiently  plastic  to  give  a  firm 
footing  to  the  imaginative  powers  of  the  beholder,  and  the  figures,  being  endowed  with 
contingent  peculiarities,  suffice  to  maintain  an  aj)pearance  of  truth  to  natiu'e,  while  monotony 
of  form  is  obviated.   That  these  peculiarities  remain  as  contingencies,  and  tend  in  no  material 


■^'^^-■^-- 


^hh^kjify.-^^:a/^^i^.',y(^^ 


r^^. 


(^i<:J^^^.^a:aJ  ^..Ai^ui^^  -^^!^aa!|fi^^^. 


JESUS    CHKIST.    AFTKK     ANTONIO    ALI.KGRI.  303 

respect  to  the  object  of  the  picture,  have  no  necessary  connection  with  the  pui-port  of  the 
pictiire,  or,  in  other  words,  arc  not  of  tiiat  importance  to  serve  as  attributes  to  the  fiiiures, — 
this  makes  these  seemingly  isohiteil  peculiarities  more  easy  of  observation.  They  are  intro- 
duced so  consistently  with  the  general  framing  of  the  picture  that  they  rarely  disturb,  but 
flow  smoothly  into  tlie  great  mass  as  a  river  flows  into  the  sea. 

The  object  in  Correggio's  thoughts  is  not  the  treatment,  nor  is  it  the  action  which  he 
represents,  but  the  feeling  which  the  object  to  be  represented  calls  up  in  his  mind.  He,  is 
the  painter  of  reflected  sensation,  beyond  every  other  artist.  Figures  which  present  themselves 
before  us  naturally,  in  order  to  perform  some  act  immediately  connected  with  themselves, 
are  of  no  use  to  Correggio.  Their  legitimate  right  would  force  the  painter  into  the  back- 
ground.   He  therefore  divests  them,  to  a  certain  extent,  of  the  power  of  truth  to  nature. 

One  of  the  greatest  beauties  of  Correggio  is  that  his  figures,  as  it  were,  spring  up 
before  our  eyes.  They  seem  to  rise  from  mysterious  darkness  where  the  imaginative  powers 
reign  supreme,  they  crowd  and  glide  towards  us  from  the  undulating  masses  of  light  and 
colour  of  which  the  atmosphere  of  Correggio's  pictures  is  composed.  We  feel  that  we  are  in 
a  fictitimis  world;  but  the  artist  bears  us  away,  and,  like  a  powerful  magician,  shews  us 
obedient  figures  which  come  at  his  call.  They  smile  when  he  smiles,  they  view  us  with  a 
look  oi  mournful  gloom,  or  of  celestial  yearning — the  truest  interpreters  of  the  lightest 
movements  in  the  bosom  of  their  master.  They  act  before  us  enchanting  dramatic  pieces, 
invented  by  the  master  to  shew  us  how  lovely  they  are.  Their  acting  lias  nothing  of  the 
ten-estrial.  In  truth,  they  undertake  nothing,  but  shew  us  only  how  they  would  <lo  something. 
Every  moment  they  return  to  their  master  and  sing  his  praise,  and  discover  to  us  a  new 
secret  of  his  creative  power. 

We  need  not,  here,  be  at  a  loss  for  sentiment,  for  we  see  nothing  but  what  leads  to  it. 
The  cause  of  the  sentiments  displayed  certainly  is  very  often  poorly  represented,  hut  that 
matters  not;  we  might  else,  on  reflection,  be  led  away  from  our  perceptions.  The  one  idea 
is  too  nearly  allied  to  them  that  it  should  escape  us  for  a  moment — that  the  master  is  the 
ideal  of  his  picture. 

This  painter,  who  apotheosises  himself,  is  too  great  merely  to  excite  a  passing  interest. 
His  sensibility  is  of  a  nature  almost  approaching  feminine  delicacy,  but  his  fancy  seeks  in 
vain  a  corresponding  boldness.  Its  boundlessness  is  not  to  be  seized  by  plastic,  formative 
force,  and  therefore  to  give  reality  to  its  eftect  must  turn  to  immeasurable  space,  like  music 
and  the  words  of  the  poet.  Light  and  its  effects  in  atmospheric  space  must  serve  the  painter  for 
the  development  of  his  fancy.  The  plastic  part  of  his  pictures  is  subservient  to  this  principle. 

Correggio's  power  and  feebleness  proceed  from  one  and  the  same  cause.  He  is 
infinitely  diverse  and,  yet,  in  a  strict  sense,  he  is  not  versatile.  His  figures  possess  no 
intrinsic  variation.  We  must  accept  the  feeling  of  the  painter  as  an  equivalent  for  all  that 
fails  in  the  expression  of  his  own  conceived  ideas  of  life.  This  tends  to  monotony:  notwith- 
standing the  most  varied  changes  which  Correggio  endeavours  to  effiect  in  the  mere  outward 
appearance. 

In  order  to  produce  this  change  to  the  greatest  extent,  he  resorted  to  the  plan  of 
fore-shortening,  and  with  a  daring  not  inferior  to  Michel  Angelo.  The  forms  of  Corregio's 
figures  correspond  to  the  feeling  conveyed  by  the  inimitably  harmonious,  dreamy,  and  soft 
colouring.    The  forms  are  soft  and  clear,  and  allow  the  most  delicate  graduations  of  light 


304  THE    GAIJJ-'.HIES    OF    VIENNA. 

ami  tints  to  be  jjerceived.  In  his  fore-shortening,  Correggio  so  manages  his  figures  that  they 
take  up  considerable  room,  and  from  the  fore-ground  reach  far  into  the  picture.  In  conse- 
quence of  this,  light  and  shadow  operate  most  powerfully  upon  every  single  figui-e.  The 
different  parts  of  the  figures  are  placed  in  space  of  different  gradations  of  colour;  those  in  the 
fore-ground,  on  which  rests  the  distribution  of  the  cldaro  sntro,  form  the  only  exception. 

Correggio's  fore-shortening  serves  as  a  means  for  the  display  of  his  wonderful 
knowledge  of  aerial  perspective.  In  this  art  no  other  p.ainter  excells  Correggio,  and  only 
Rembrandt,  in  certain  respects,  is  second  to  him.  Correggio  practices  the  effect  of  light  and 
shade  to  shew  off  his  figures;  the  former  is  there  to  lend  its  aid  to  the  latter.  Rembrandt 
wants  his  figures  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  shew  off  his  light  and  shade,  a  service  wliich, 
for  the  Dutchman,  a  number  of  old  stumps  of  trees  or  anything  similar  would  be  sufficient 
to  perform. 

Correggio  attains  in  a  way  peculiar  to  himself  a  powerful  perspective  effect  in  his 
figures,  and  finishes  with  an  optical  illusion.  To  this  tlie  great  mass  of  the  public  has  always 
been  susceptible.  Correggio's  style  excludes  in  principle  as  in  technics  every  thing  hard, 
rough,  and  coarse.  His  pictures  appear  harmonious,  and  only  a  very  limited  effect  of 
contrast  is  allowed  to  them  and  is  only  employed  to  give  greater  prominence  to  the  parts 
which  agree  with  each  other.  These  peculiarities  have  procured  for  Correggio  the  title  of 
the  graceful  painter. 

'  True  gracefulness,  however,  is  a  rare  thing  with  this  great  master.  Grace  is  not 
necessarily  connected  with  pleasing  form;  but  it  never  is  seen  without  the  characteristic 
expression  of  the  mind,  without  the  development  of  the  feeling  which  especially  belongs  to 
the  graceful  person.  It  is  consequently  not  at  all  astonishing  that  Correggio  who,  as  a 
rule,  is  absorbed  in  the  general  expression  of  his  figures,  should  so  seldom  be  able  to 
command  true  gracefulness.  When  he  goes  beyond  the  (piiet,  pleasing  expression  in  his 
heads,  and  allows  the  agitation  of  the  features  to  predominate,  he  becomes  affected;  from 
this  few  of  his  pictures  are  wholly  exempt. 

The  Belvedere  Gallery  contains  some  celebrated  pictures  by  this  master.  The  chief 
of  them  is  "lo,"  where  she  receives  the  embraces  of  Jupiter.  In  some  parts  of  the  clouds 
the  piece  seems  too  elaborated,  and  is  heavier  than  in  the  picture  in  Berlin  representing  the 
same  subject. 

"The  Rape  of  Ganymede,"  "the  Madonna  with  the  Infant  and  St.  John,"  and  "Cupid 
cutting  his  Bow"  are  wonderfully  beautiful.  An  immense  "Madonna"  has  not  power  in 
sufficient  proportion  to  its  size;  and  the  "Christ  driving  the  Money-changers  out  of  the 
Temple,"  which  from  its  subject  requires  individual  distinctness,  is  not  exactly  suited  to 
Correggio's  style  of  representation. 

The  Liechtenstein  Gallery  possesses  a  gem-  from  Correggio's  hand:  a  "Venus,"  in 
which  the  flesh  tints  are  superb,  and  likewise  a  "Madonna." 

In  the  same  collection  is  a  singular  picture  of  "Christ  bearing  the  Cross."  The  head 
is  very  naturally  conceived  and  has  every  appearance  of  being  a  portrait.  Heads  similar 
to  this  are  not  often  found  in  Correggio's  worlcs.  This  piece  does  not  offer  indications 
sufficient  to  shew  that  it  was  produced  after  the  painter  had  obtained  the  mastery  over  light 
and  shade.  According  to  all  appearance,  the  "Christ"  may  be  classed  among  those  pictures 
which  Correggio  executed  in  his  thirtieth  year. 


jKsrs  ciiinsT,  akikh  antoxki  ai.i.iocki.  305 

Tlie  ]iictiircs  in  tiio  Tvicclitcnstcin  Gallcrv  arc  speciiilly  interesting  to  artists.  Very  few 
of  these  treasures  iiave  liceu  toiieiied  by  a  stranj^er-liand.  We  meet  here  tiie  pencil  .strokes 
of  the  niiisteTs  own  liand. 

The  Esterhiizy  (iallery  contains  a  portrait  of  the  master  painted  i)y  himself — a  finely 
formed  Apostle's  head  with  a  eontemplative  expression.  Another  pi(;tiire,  well  known  from 
the  engravings  after  it,  represents  the  Madonna  with  tiie  Infant  Jesus  at  the  breast.  Th;' 
ehild  John  lirings  him  fruit  in  his  vesture. 

C'orrcggio  is  a  geniu.s  of  the  first  rank.  He  is  only  to  be  judged  by  his  own  standard. 
His  walk  of  art  is  peculiar  to  himself.  No  one  else  trod  his  ]iath  before  him,  and  he  has 
not  had  a  single  successor  of  any  import:ince.  Correggio,  as  far  he  was  concerned,  broke 
through  the  set  form  of  the  old  system  of  representation.  In  earlier  life  he  may  have  learnt 
something  from  T^'onardo  da  ^^inei,  and  Michel  Angelo  may  have  exercised  an  influence 
u|>ou  hiui:  however  this  may  be,  he  partakes  but  little  of  the  style  of  either  of  those  masters, 
and  his  treatment  of  cause  and  effect  is  different  to  theirs  in  his  manner  of  j)ainting. 

.  To  confirm  the  last  observation,  we  may  observe  that  Leonardo  as  well  as  Correggio 
strives  after  pleasing  form.  Ha  Vinci  first  of  all  hits  upon  the  characteristic  of  his  figures 
and  transforms  them,  as  far  as  the  subject  will  allow,  without  destroying  the  expression  of 
individual  peculiarity — into  pleasing  homogeneous  forms.  Correggio  begins  with  the  pleasing- 
forms,  imbues  them  with  an  ideal  sentiment,  and  can  never  arrive  at  the  characteristic. 

Both,  Correggio  and  Michel  Angelo,  subscribe  to  the  principle  of  motion  in  their 
fore-shortening.  By  means  of  fore-shortening  Angelo  had  it  in  his  ])0wer  to  concentrate  the 
action  and  to  give  full  force  to  the  characteristics  of  his  figures.  To  C'orreggio  the  fore- 
shortening of  the  figures  was  necessary  to  impart  to  each  as  much  as  possible  the  effects 
of  his  clnorosfit7'o,  and  thus  to  concentrate  these  effects,  or,  in  other  words,  to  give  the  greatest 
force  to  the  sentiment  of  his  picture.  Angelo  succeeded  in  making  his  figures  independent 
of  his  own  jiersonality,  at  the  same  time,  he  went  to  tiie  utmost  verge  in  imparting  individuality 
to  them.  l?ut  with  Corrcggio's  figures,  the  more  completely  and  effectively  they  show  thai, 
which  they  themselves  have  not  in  their  own  power,  hut  of  which  they  are  made  the  subjects — 
the  effects  of  light — the  more  forcibly  do  they  jioint  l)aek  to  the  painter  himself. 

In  the  art  of  colouring  Correggio  and  Tizian  are  upon  an  equality  with  each  other. 
But  each  works  upon  certain  principles,  arriving  at  an  efficiency  which  the  other  has  not 
the  power  to  produce. 

Truth  to  nature  is  merely  incidental  in  Correggio's  figures;  in  Tizian's  figures  it  is 
the  great  essential.  Tizian  achieves  his  object  by  means  of  his  local  tones  which  he 
allows  to  rule  as  the  immediate  property  of  his  subject,  whereas  Correggio  allows  them  to 
jirevail  only  so  far  as  they  may  aid  those  general  effects  of  light  and  color  which  he  had 
in  view.  In  other  cases  the  local  tone  is  so  diversified,  to  accommodate  the  effect  of  the 
rldaroscuvo,  that  it  appears  in  direct  opposition  to  the  standard  rules  of  truth. 

Tizian's  figures  seem  as  it  were  the  glorification  of  nature:  in  Correggio's  nothing  is 
real  except  the  way  in  which  he  represents  and  feels. 

Tizian  may  paint  a  magnificent  rose;  Correggio  paints  the  fragrance  it  exhales. 

The  expression  "AncK  to  sono  pitiore!"  (I  too  am  a  painter!)  said  to  have  been 
uttered  by  Correggio,   before  Raphael's  St.  Ctecilia,   at  Bologna,   is  well   known   to   all   the 

Oallcrics  of  Vienna.  39 


306  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

world.  Beyond  this  enthusiastic  ejaculation,  scarcely  anything  authentic  can  be  added  relative 
to  the  youthful  days  of  Correggio. 

It  has  been  asserted  that  Andrea  Mantegna  was  his  master;  no  proof,  however,  has 
been  offered  to  substantiate  this  further  than  that  in  Correggio's  early  pictures  the  form 
of  his  heads  bore  a  similarity  to  those  of  IMantegna's. 

The  surname  Correggio  is  derived  from  the  birth-place  of  the  painter,  Keggio,  near 
Modena.  His  real  name  was  Antonio  AUegri.  He  was  born  in  the  year  1493,  or  1494,  at 
the  time  \vhen  Leonardo  da  Vinci  was  forty  years,  Michel  Angelo  twenty,  and  Rajihael  ten 
years  of  age.  His  father,  Pellegrino  Allegri,  was  a  tradesman  and  gave  his  son  a  good 
school  education.  It  seems  to  be  certain  that  after  the  death  of  Andrea  Mantegna,  in 
Mantua,  1506,  his  son,  Francesco,  carried  on  the  school,  and  that  Correggio  painted  under 
him.  Andrea  Montegna  may  be  considered  as  the  first  who  was  successful  in  the  fore- 
shortening- of  figures. 

Of  Correggio's  early  pictures  of  value  there  is  one  in  the  Dresden  Gallery  "Madonna 
di  San  Francesco" — originally  intended  for  an  altar-piece — in  whicli  St.  Francis  is  one  of  the 
principal  figures.  The  painter  married  in  the  year  1519.  The  rest  of  his  history  is  limited — 
if  we  except  the  somewhat  vague  account  of  his  having  a  second  time  entered  the  married 
state — to  the  notices  of  his  works.    Correggio  died  in  1534. 


A  VILLAGE  ALE  HOUSE, 


AFTEK 

ADRIAN   VAN   OSTADE. 


This  picture,  painted  with  extraordinary  animation,  may  serve  to  shew  the  close 
congeniality  which  existed  between  the  Netherlandish  painters  whose  choice  of  subject  was 
derived  from  the  lower  ranks  of  life,  and  who  closely  depicted  its  genuine  phases.  The 
Village  Ale  House  by  Ostade,  notwithstanding  the  exqui.site  painting  of  the  piece,  executed 
in  the  earlier  years  of  the  master,  might  very  well — as  far  as  the  drawing  is  concerned — 
be  ascribed  to  Adrian  Brouwei',  or  Cornelius  Bega.  But  the  painting  vindicates  the  picture 
as  being  by  the  hand  of  the  "good  Ostade." 


I 


'.^ 


M. 


&^^^ 


■i'/ZX 


Dmci  uVerlig  dEnsliadienKunotanatiltv  A  H  Papie.leipaiJ  &  Dresden 


THE    WATCH    TOWKK.    AKTKK    ADAM     I'YNACKKK.  ;{()7 

THE  WATCH   TOWKK, 


AF'I'FK 

ADAM    PYNACKER. 


.\<lan>  I'ynackcr,  ijeneriilly  known  witlidut  a  C'liristian  name,  was  born  in  the  liainlet 
of  Fynackfi'  situate  between  .Sciiicdam  and  De)f't.  He  is  not  one  of  the  most  known,  Imt 
certainly  one  of  the  cleverest,  of  the  Dutch  landscape  jiainters  of  the  seventeenth  centm-y. 

Pvnackcr  ])0ssessed  a  refined  and  clcfjant  taste.  In  his  pictures  everythinif  dc[)ends 
upon  the  expression  of  feeliuj^;  and  in  order  to  aquire  this,  he  sets  to  work  for  the  general 
expression,  but  not  for  every  possible  accuracy  in  the  details  of  nature.  In  this  painter's 
pieces  a  similarity  might  be  discovered  with  those  of  the  brothers  Andreas  and  Johannes  Both. 
Like  the  Boths,  Pynacker  frequently  introduces  mag-nificent  forms,  mostly  taken  from  the 
Italian,  and  possesses  simplicity  and  breadth  in  the  composition  and  colouring.  His  pictures 
make  a  quiet,  clear,  solemn,  or  idyllic  imj)ression. 

In  the  efl^^ct  produced  b}-  siuilight  is  Pynacker  esj)ecially  masterly.  His  tint  is 
transparent,  golden,  often  glowing,  and  still  the  artist  knew  how  to  work  even  in  the  silver- 
grey  tone  of  early  morning  like  Asselyn. 

The  accessories  in  this  painter's  pictures  are  never  of  that  paramount  importance, 
like  those  of  Berghem,  Wouwerman,  and  Van  de  Velde.  He  is  frugal  with  his  iigures  — 
in  which  however  he  is  very  successful — giving  them  only  a  gentle  action  or  keeping  them 
in  subordination,  so  as  not  to  disturb  the  impression  intended  to  be  made  by  the  landscape. 
The  finishing  is  always  delicate,  although  he  paints  the  details  as  they  appear  in  masses.  In 
this  regard  his  moon-light  landscapes  are  exquisite.  He  loves  to  introduce  old  round  towers, 
bridges,  &c.,  as  they  are  found  in  Italy,  into  his  landscapes,  and  these  circumstances,  together 
with  his  branches  of  trees,  ])resent  sufficient  proof  that  Pynacker — whose  master  is  not 
known — finished  his  education  in  Rome.  At  all  events,  Pynacker  is  one  of  those  artists  who 
possessed  a  poetical  conception  of  nature  and  took  great  cai'c  in  the  choice  of  his  subjects. 
His  works  are  not  numerous. 

In  order  to  characterise  his  subjects  more  fully  we  will  mention  a  few  of  his  pictures. 
On  the  borders  of  a  lake  are  masses  of  rocks  proceeding  from  the  extreme  distance  to  the 
immediate  fore-ground;  a  brook  descends  from  the  foremost  rock,  which  is  ornamented 
with  trees.  Opposite  the  water-fall  are  seen  herdsmen  with  their  cattle,  and  a  woman  riding 
on  an  ass.  In  order  to  strengthen  the  effect  of  the  perspective,  two  figures  arc  introduced 
on  an  eminence.  Another  picture  represents  a  mountainous  landscape.  Here,  toii,  in  the 
fore-ground  rolls  a  water-fall  from  the  rock.  Over  the  stream  is  a  rough  sort  of  bridge,  on 
which  stands  the  herdsman  blovving  his  horn  to  simimon  his  herd  of  two  cows  and  six  goats. 
These  paintings  are  preserved  in  the  Berlin  Museum. 

There  are  many  prints  after  Pynacker's  pictures:  a  large  hilly  landscape  witii  a  round 
tower;  Marine  view  by  moon-light;  ancient  Roman  bridges;  Landscape  representing  evening; 
View  of  Gibraltar  -which  the  painter  may  have  taken  from  nature  on  his  return  voyage  to 
Holland;  The  Shepherdess  knitting,  &c. 

39* 


308  THE    fiALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

G  L  U  C  K, 


AFTER 

J.    S.   DUPLESSIS. 


There  is  no  portrait  of  Gluck  to  be  found  that  is  more  hke,  or  which  more  truly  reflects 
the  character  of  this  gi-eat  master.  Duplessis  (Joseph  Sifrede)  was  a  F'renchman,  born  in 
1 725  at  Carpentras,  the  s})ot  of  many  classical  recollections.  He  received  his  education  in 
Rome.  He  was  gifted  in  various  departments  of  painting,  but  devoted  himself  entirely  to 
portrait  painting,  in  which  likeness,  ease,  and  elegance  are  exemplified  in  the  highest  degree. 


GASTON    DE   FOII, 

AFTER 

PALMA   VECCHIO. 


We  find  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery  a  few  of  the  best  pictures  by  the  elder  Palma,  of 
which  one  only — a  female  portrait — belongs  to  his  period  of  sickly  softness.  A  splendid 
work,  full  of  feeling  for  the  beautiful,  pvu'e  sentiment,  and  harmony  of  colours,  is  the 
"Madonna  with  the  Infant,"  on  the  left  a  female  martyr  and  St.  John,  on  the  right  Pope 
St.  Coelestinus  and  St.  Catherine.  In  the  "Daughter  of  Herodias"  with  the  head  of  John  the 
Baptist,  Palma  appears  in  the  intensive  force  of  Giorgione  Barbarelli — his  prototype  dui-ing 
the  first  period. 

Excellent  as  these  pictures  are  in  effect  they  are  inferior  to  a  simple  porti-ait  which 
seems  to  attract  us  by  a  sort  of  magic  influence.  It  is  the  likeness  of  a  youth  with  a  most 
noble,  dauntless  cast  of  features,  yet  so  delicate  that  they  almost  verge  on  effeminacy.  His 
countenance  is  surrounded  with  a  fine  exuberance  of  hair.  On  a  table,  which  is  merely  indicated, 
he  holds  before  him  a  glittering  helmet,  or  rather  casque,  ornamented  with  a  golden  wreath 
of  acorns.  If  we  may  form  an  opinion  of  the  worth  of  this  portrait  from  the  impression  it 
makes  upon  us,  we  must  arrive  at  the  conclusion  that  it  is  something  extraordinary.  There 
are  but  few  portraits  which — compared  with  this  for  simplicity — can  pretend  to  produce  so 
magical  an  effect — the  Cardinal  Ippolito  de'  Medici,  by  Tizian,  in  the  Pitti  palace,  Van  Dyck's 
Charles  I.  and  a  few  portraits  by  Holbein  the  younger. 

In  this  portrait  Palma  represents  a  radiant  hero,  who  at  a  youthful  age  fell  on  the 
field  of  honour,  but  whose  short  career  gave  him  immortality.  It  is  Gaston  de  Foix,  Duke 
of  Nemours,  the  last  male  offspring  of  the  heroic  race  of  the  De  Foix,  who,  as  General,  was 
killed  in  the  battle  of  Ravenna  near  Venice.  No  small  portion  of  the  interest  which  this 
picture  inspires   is   due   to   the  fine  person  of  tliis  youthful  General,   and  to  the  sympathy 


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which  liif  fate  calls  forth,  but  tlie  painter,  also,  has  clone  much  to  exeitc  our  enthusiasm 
for  the  hero.  The  countenance,  spite  of  the  momentary  repose,  beams  with  intellect, 
passion,  and  energy,  softened  by  the  gentle  breath  of  loveablcness  and  generosity.  This 
picture  possesses  all  the  force  and  brilliancy  of  a  Giorgione:  we  observe  on  the  radiant 
helmet  the  reflection  of  the  delicate  fingers  and  the  broad  silk  scarf  which  Giorgionc  so 
loved  to  introduce.  In  this  picture  the  play  of  light  is  masterly,  apparently  without  effort, 
imparting  to  the  whole  an  extraordinary  vitality,  and  increasing  tlie  furce  of  expression  in 
the  countenance  of  the  youth. 

The  portraits  by  Giorgionc,  when  placed  by  the  side  of  this,  which  unites  truth, 
firmness,  and  amiability  with  poetical  sublimity,  apjiear  coarse,  harsh,  and  destitute  of  any 
feeling  for  beauty.  In  his  Ippolito  de'  Medici — whose  head,  in  proportion  with  the  bo<ly, 
and  especially  with  the  outstretched  arm  whit^li  wields  the  battle-axe,  appears  too  small — 
Tizian  certainly  attains  a  similar  effect;  as  a  rule,  however,  his  portraits  are  kept  too  general, 
and  are  given  only  according  to  their  chiefly  definite  features,  so  that  they  do  not  produce 
a  striking  and  indelible  impression  upon  the  mind  of  the  beholder.  Still,  Pahna  Vecchio  in 
his  portraits  not  unfreqnently  falls  into  the  Tizian  style  of  conception. 

Tizian  could  not  enter  too  closely  into  characteristic  detail  without  weakening  his  bold 
and  broad  colouring.  He  therefore  dispensed  with  everything  in  the  sliape  ol'mere  accessories, 
grasped  at  the  essential  forms  and  features  of  the  original  of  his  picture,  then  woi-ked  ujj 
these  with  that  freedom  of  treatment  which  secured  for  his  picture  an  artistical  effect.  The 
absence  of  accessories  tends  to  give  Tizian's  portraits  an  important  and  sublime  character. 
His  personages  present  themselves  before  us  as  the  poet  describes  his  hero — chanting  his 
glorious  deeds  and  lofty  ideas,  but  mute  on  his  troubles  and  affairs  of  cvcry-day  life. 
Van  Dyck,  on  the  contrary,  seizes  carefully  upon  the  peculiarities  of  his  original;  nothing 
escapes  him,  the  merest  trifle  is  of  importance  to  him.  Tliis  uliiuulance  of  characteristic 
features,  however.  Van  Dyck  turns  to  account  with  almost  absolute  power,  produces  from 
them  a  picturesque  entirety.  Only  the  third  greatest  portrait  painter  for  all  time,  Master  Hans 
Holbein,  represented  his  originals  with  photographical  correctness,  and  appeared  to  leave  it 
to  themselves  to  produce  what  effect  they  might. 

Palma  Vecchio,  altogether  of  an  easy,  flexible  character,  produced  pictures  which,  in 
point  of  conception,  sometimes  resembled  one  and  sometimes  another  ol'  the  three  gi'eat 
masters.  He  shews  to  the  greatest  advantage  in  those  portraits,  in  which — like  that  of 
Gaston  de  Foix — he  unites  the  truthfulness  of  Holbein  with  the  ideal  treatment  of  Tizian. 

Compared  with  Tizian,  Palma  discovers  the  genre  element  which  the  former  early 
discarded.  Palma  could  never  wholly  overcome  the  influence  of  Giorgionc.  As  a  breath 
of  the  too  frecjuently  limited  judgment  on  the  power  of  colour  displayed  by  Barbarelli — 
which  by  Tizian  is  richly  and  harmoniously  dispersed — remained  peculiar  to  him,  so,  also, 
do  wc  constantly  meet  with  these  genre  features,  which,  even  with  the  most  sublime  subjects, 
are  sufficient  to  give  a  stamp  of  ordinay  every-day  life.  Where,  however,  these  features 
coincide  with  the  spirit  of  the  subject,  they  often  work  in  a  manner  remarkably  striking 
and  pleasing. 

A  brief  review  of  Palma's  pictures,  which  are  to  be  found  in  the  other  great 
galleries  of  Germany,  will  suffice  to  characterize  this  painter  more  minutely.  In  Berlin  we 
first   of  all    find   his  Madonna,  in  a  chamber  receiving  its  light   from  a  bow-win<low,   from 


310  THE    OALLKKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

which  a  landscape  is  viewed.  Tlie  Virgin  is  reading  a  book,  while  the  Infant  Jesus  is  sleeping 
on  the  stone  i)reast-wall  of  the  window.  Another  picture  of  a  Madonna,  with  Joseph,  in 
which  she  adores  the  Child  reposing  before  her,  is  more  ideal  but  less  pleasing  or  intellectual. 
Strange,  bur  with  the  greatest  strength  of  nature,  is  tlie  next  picture— the  portrait  of  a  Doge 
in  full  state  costume,  but  to  whom  we  cannot  give  any  further  clue.  The  Marriage  of 
St.  Catharine  is  treated  after  the  manner  of  Tizian's  "Conversazioni"  without  anj'  depth 
of  meaning,  or  dignity.  Mary  with  the  Infant  Jesus  in  the  act  of  blessing,  with  St.  Francis 
and  St.  Catlierinc  is  of  a  more  sublime  character,  and  reminds  us  of,  Giambellini's  style. 

In  Munich  there  arc  only  three  pictures  by  tiiis  artist.  The  first  is  St.  Jerome;  he  is 
represented  sitting  with  the  lion  at  his  side,  a  picture,  which,  although  well  executed,  is 
too  generally  characterized.  The  portrait  figures  called  "Holy  Brotherhood,"  remindinir  us 
of  Giorgione,  are  an  excellent  production.  A  little  picture,  painted  on  marl)le,  and  peculiarly 
treated,  represents  the  scourging  of  Christ. 

In  Dresden  there  is  a  beautiful  portrait  of  a  woman  in  Spanish  costume.  The  lady 
holds  a  mirror  while  behind  iier  stands  a  man.  Another  picture  of  great  (ruth  and  power 
in  the  colouring  is  a  man  holding  a  woman  in  his  embrace,  in  which  are  united  the  softness 
of  Tizian  with  the  vigotu'  of  Giorgione.  Venus  reposing  on  a  couch,  with  a  landscape  in  the 
back-ground,  is  well  painted  but  indifiercntly  drawn.  Glorious,  on  the  other  hand,  are  the 
celebrated  three  sisters,  the  daughters  of  the  master,  amongst  them  Violante.  The  middle 
one  of  the  Venetian  graces  embraces  one  of  the  sisters. — Mary,  with  the  Infant  on  her  lap 
who  caresses  tiie  child  John,  together  with  Jose])h  and  Catherine.  This  picture  is  quite  in 
the  spirit  of  Tizian  and  for  a  long  time  passed  as  the  work  of  that  master.  Mary  with  the 
Child,  John  and  St.  Catherine  is  a  less  refined  comjiosition.  And,  last  of  all,  a  pictiu'e  on 
which  there  have  been  reiterated  disputes  as  to  its  being  by  Pahna  Vecchio — Mary  seated 
beneath  a  tree  with  the  Infant  standing  on  her  hand.  At  the  side  sits  St.  Elizabeth  with 
the  child  John,  in  front  stand  St.  Catherine  and  St.  Joseph. 


THE    MESSENGER, 


FLORENT    WILLEMS. 


W'illenis  ranks  amongst  tiie  most  distinguished  of  tiie  modern  painters  of  Belgium. 
He  has  chosen  the  old  Netherlandish  masters  as  patterns  fi)r  the  genre,  and  understands 
perfectly  well  how  to  paint  in  tiie  spirit  of  a  Terburg,  Netscher,  or  Mieris.  Solely  from  a 
remarkalde  freedom  and  boldnes-s  especially  in  the  treatment  of  his  lights,  is  he  to  be 
recognized  as  an  artist  of  the  present  day.  With  respect  to  the  effect  of  light,  and,  to  which 
may  justly  l)e  added,  magnificent  breadth  of  colour,  his  "Messenger"  may  be  regarded  as 
one  of  his  best  pieces. 


THE    GAME    DEALEK.    AKTEK     I'lKTKU    A  KHI  SENS.  ;{ ]  J 


HE    GAME    DEAKER, 


PIETER    AERTSENS. 

Pieter  Aertsens,  also  written  Aertzen  and  called  by  his  cutciiiporai-ics  "de  Lungen 
Piei'''  (long  Peter),  ranks  amongst  the  most  reniarkahle  Dutch  artists  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
but  he  is  less  known  than  many  other  painters  who  l)y  no  means  bear  the  test  of  eomparison 
with  him.  Aertsens'  pictures  are  rare,  and  thereibre  more  valuai)le.  Witii  the  exception 
of  the  Belvedere  gallery,  and  the  Museum  of  Berlin,  which  contains  three  jriece.s  ijv  this 
master,  his  works  are  not  to  be  found  either  in  Munich  or  Dresden,  nor  perhaps  in  any 
of  the  other  great  galleries  of  Germany. 

In  the  Bei-lin  catalogue  Aertsens  is  stated  to  have  been  the  scholar  of  "Alart  Claessen." 
This  is  a  mistake.  Alaert  Claas,  otherwise  C'laassen  as  he  is  sometimes  written,  was  born  in 
1520,  and  seems  to  have  been  a  year  younger  than  Pieter  Aertsens.  This  circum.^tance,  to 
be  sure,  does  not  wiiolly  preclude  the  possibility  of  Alaert  Claas  not  having  instructed 
Aertsens  in  the  art,  but  Claas  was  not  a  painter,  he  was  only  an  engraver;  besides,  his 
occupation  was  quite  ol'  a  different  character  to  that  of  Aertsens. 

The  presmnption  is  that  Aertsens'  master  was  not  Alaert  Claas  l)ut  Anton  Claessens, 
the  eldest  ol'  this  name  and  one  of  the  most  distinguished  Flemish  painters  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  This  Claessens  was  a  disciple  of  the  Van  Eycks':  he  for  the  most  part  painted  Bible 
subjects  displaying  bold  drawing  with  powerful  lights,  but  coarse  colouring;  he  possessed 
at  the  same  time  a  peculiar  bent  for  making  all  his  figures  correct  copies  from  nature:  in 
fact,  they  appear  to  be  taken  from  common  life.  Hence  it  is  that  the  pictures  by  Anton 
Claessens,  owing  to  this  coarse  introduction  of  truth  to  nature,  are  of  the  genre  element, 
which  Peter  Aertsens  succeeded  in  representing  without  the  least  historical  reference. 

On  the  contrary,  Aertsens  seems  to  be  connected  with  Hieronymus  Bosch,  the  "jolly 
Bosch."  Aertsens'  style  of  painting  is  altogether  similar  to  that  of  Bosch.  Aertsens  presents 
an  indisputable  proof  of  this  in  his  picture  painted  from  a  sketch  by  the  "jolly  Bo.<ch" — 
we  allude  to  the  piece  of  "The  Blind  leading  the  Blind"  in  Berlin,  in  which  the  two  are 
represented  as  fallen  into  a  ditch,  which  serio-comic  accideut  is  repeated  in  the  background 
of  the  picture.  One  scholar  of  the  "jolly  Bosch,"  according  to  the  testimony  of  Felipe 
de  Queveras,  possessed  a  remarkable  talent  for  imitating  his  master,  and  likewise  for  putting 
the  name  of  the  latter  to  his  works — whether  from  reverence  or  for  the  sake  of  gain  remains 
undecided.  The  supposition,  and  not  a  very  far  fetched  one,  is,  that  this  scholar  was  no 
other  than  Aertsens.  If  this  supposition  hold  good,  the  circumstance  that  the  pictures  by  so 
clever  a  painter  as  Aertsens  are  so  very  rarely  to  be  found  is  easily  accounted  for,  although 
the  painter  was  by  no  means  one  of  the  slowest,  and  he  lived  from  1519  till  157o. 

Aertsens  is  especially  a  genre  painter.  The  representation  of  conmion  life,  which  at  a 
later  period  so  predominated  among  the  Dutch  painters,  Aertsens  had  already  acipiired  to 
perfection.  In  those  pictures,  the  luidoubted  genuine  ])roductions  of  this  p;iiuter.  are  com- 
prehended  scenes   of  peaceful,    social    life,    free   from   the   fantastical   extravagances  of  the 


312  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"jolly  Boselh"  "The  Game  Dealer"  soiiietiiiies  called  "The  Peasants'" — in  the  Belvedere 
Ciallerj — Aertsen's  best  picture,  might  \evy  well,  as  far  as  the  conceptinn  and  the  drawing 
are  concerned,  be  attributed  to  Dow  or  Metzu,  so  correctly  and  so  thoroughly  has  he  adhered 
to  nature.  Aertsen.s'  Kitchen  scenes  arc  as  good  and  even  richer  than  tliose  painted  by  the 
so-called  incomparable  Kalf. 

Aertsens'  picture  of  "The  Game  Dealer,"  in  which  tiic  figures  are  of  life  size,  displays 
the  firm,  strictly  correct  drawing,  and  the  lively  colouring  which  here  presents  itself  in  this 
muster's  jileasing  style  combined  with  his  skill  in  blending  the  colors.  It  is  also  to  be  observed 
that  his  historical  pieces  are  not  to  be  despised.  Aert.sens'  "Christ  bearing  the  Cross,"'  in 
Berlin  is  a  picture  which  sufficiently  proves  the  talent  of  the  painter  in  placing  a  number 
of  figures  in  action,  and  keeping  the  different  positions  in  appropriate  distinction.  In  the 
centre  of  the  picture  Christ,  lying  under  the  weight  of  the  cross,  is  insulted  by  the  soldiers, 
while  His  relatives  are  mourning  and  lamenting.  The  expression  of  suffering  in  the  heads, 
which  are  most  correctly  jiainted,  differs  widely  from  that  offensive  and  painful  truth  often 
found  in  those  pieces  by  Hemling  and  Bosch.  In  the  fore-ground  the  oldiers  are  laying  hands 
on  Simon  of  Cyrene.  There  is  also  a  view  of  a  market  where  all  kinds  of  food  are  exposed 
for  sale.  To  the  right  of  the  picture  are  the  two  thieves,  accompanied  by  a  Dominican  and 
a  Franciscan  fria?,  and  surrounded  by  Dutch  people  of  all  classes.  In  the  extreme  distance 
are  seen  numbers  of  figures  coming  frpm  Jerusalem.  Quite  in  the  old  style,  Aertsens'  introduces 
in  the  back-ground  the  Crucifixion  and  the  Eesurrection.   The  picture  is  from  the  year  1552. 

Another  piece  worthy  of  notice  is  the  Young  Wife  who  is  carriyng  a  child  on  her 
shoidders.  The  back-ground  is  composed  of  landscape  and  architecture,  the  latter  of  which 
the  artist  thoroughl}'  well  knew  how  to  treat. 


THE    BAGPIPER, 

AFTKI! 

DAVID    TENIERS. 


This  splendid  picture  departs  so  materially  from  the  general  style  of  this  artist,  that 
■we  view  it  with  two-fold  interest. 

The  doleful,  vagabond  look  of  the  wandering  minstrel,  his  assumed  air  of  honesty, 
his  nose  which  testifies  to  his  bibacious  habits,  but,  above  all,  the  wariness,  acquired  by 
sharp  experience,  and  now  amounting  to  a  second  nature,  with  which  he  looks  askant  over 
his  bagpipes  at  the  calf  of  his  left  leg,  so  as  to  be  prepared  for  the  sudden  approach  of  the 
peasant's  dog — all  this  is  exquisite.  The  execution  of  the  picture  is  fine,  but  displays  more 
vigour  than  is  usually  found  in  David  Teniers. 


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INTERIOR    OF    A    PEASANTS    PWELMNG.    AKITU    DAVJJ)    TKNIKR8.  313 


INTERIOR  OF  A  PEASAN'J'S  DWELLING, 

AKTKK 

SAVID     TENIERS. 


It  is  somewhat  extraordinary  tli;it  David  Tenioi-s  tlie  yonnsrer  should  so  firmly 
persevere  in  one  arrangement  of  his  in-door  scenes,  thougii  he  had  it  in  his  power  to  design 
in  the  spirit  of  every  great  master  tliat  might  be  mentioned  to  him,  and  to  proiluoe  tliose 
imitations,  renowned  under  the  Name  oi  ^^  Pastiches." 

Those  who  are  not  quaUfied  to  recognize  Teniers'  pictures  by  any  other  characteristic 
would  scarcely  be  in  uncertainty  when  viewing  a  picture  by  this  master,  if  the  question 
arise  as  to  whether  it  is  a  "Teniers."  The  fore-ground  appears  according  to  the  depth 
of  the  piece  partitioned  off  by  a  lengtli  of  wall;  a  view  opens  into  a  second  compartment 
of  the  house — for  we  can  scarcely  call  this  space  a  room — where,  as  in  the  fore-ground, 
Teniers  loved  io  place  figures  in  the  most  quiet  situation.  In  the  main  point,  Teniers  is  not 
incorrect  in  this  arrangement.  TKese  interiors  exhibit  the  old  Flemish  fashion.  .Vt  the 
present  day  in  such  villages  of  Brabant  and  Holland,  lying  apart  from  the  most  frequented 
roads,  we  find  still  existing,  properly  speaking,  not  rooms,  but  places  as  Teniers  represented 
them.  In  one  corner  of  the  floor  is  a  partition  wall,  the  space  behind  which  is  used  for 
rooms  of  state.  The  proper  place  of  meeting  for  the  family,  "the  territory  of  the  fair  sex," 
is  the  low,  open  fire-place,  where  intimate  friends  are  received,  whose  principal  anuisement 
consists  in  smoknng  and  most  gravely  spitting  into  the  blazing  fire.  It  rarely  happens  that 
Teniers,  in  these  interiors  of  peasants'  dwellings  of  northern  German  origin,  displays  any 
degree  of  perspective  effect.  He  places  his  point  of  sight  in  his  "interiors"  so  that  there  is 
no  necessity  for  the  introduction  of  a  ceiling  or  under  part  of  a  roof  into  his  pictures. 

What  a  contrast  with  the  diversified  perspective  of  Adrian  van  Ostade!  With  him 
it  is  almost  indispensable  to  fix  his  interior  from  every  side,  to  display  both  side-walls, 
ceiling  or  roof,  giving  tlie  spectator  an  opportunity  of  getting  acquainted  with  his  peasants' 
dwellings  and  barns — wliere  the  old  folks  drink  and  the  young  people  dance. 

To  form  an  ojjinion  ironi  his  pictures,  Teniers  was  bj'  no  means  so  well  versed  in 
perspective  as  the  Ostades.  At  the  same  time,  it  would  not  have  been  difficult  for  the 
humorist  par  excellence  to  circumscribe  his  space  witli  the  rc()iiisite  perspective  had  he  found 
it  to  his  interest.  Teniers  depended  on  his  figures:  the  form  oi  tlieir  liends,  the  expression 
of  countenance,  together  with  their  habits,  formed  his  chief,,  point,  and  any  thing  else  would 
only  serve  to  distract  attention  from  them.  For  this  reason,  therefore,  those  pictures  by  the 
younger  Teniers,  in  which  he  did  not  devote  his  full  powers  to  the  delineation  of  the  most 
exact  characteristic  belong  only  to  an  inferior  class.  We  allude  to  his  fairs  and  wedding- 
scenes,  country  wakes  and  oflier  merry  makings  in  which  numerous  figures  ap]iear.  In  these 
pieces  Teniers  could  not  work  out  the  finer  characteristics  of  his  beads — he  abandoned  tiie 
sphere  in  which  his  great  power  lay.  Teniers  often  attempted  to  give  a  view  of  those  scenes 
with  a  great  number  of  figures,  and,  at  the  same  time,  to  preserve  their  characteristic  features: 
he  places  a  itw   figures  in  the  immediate  fore-ground,  iind.  nt  the  side,  opens  to  view  a  scene 

Galleries  t)f  Vieiiua  40 


314  *       THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

of  lively  hustle,  figures  on  a  very  small  scale  in  the  back-ground.  These  pictures— as 
in  his  Betrothed  Couple  with  the  Bag-piper — betray  an  unpleasantly  evident  deficiency 
of  perspective  balance. 

In  order  to  introduce  some  variety  in  his  constantly  repeated  compositions,  so  that  the 
eye  of  the  beholder  may  not  be  continually  on  his  figures,  Teniers  brings  in  auxiliaries  which 
are  always  executed  with  most  extraordinary  exactness— ^house  utensils  of  all  kinds,  shining 
kettles,  saucepans,  &c.  As  a  rule,  Teniers  places  these  accessories  on  the  ground,  keeping 
them  as  distant  as  possible  from  the  faces  of  his  figures. 

Such  an  abundanc  of  surrounding  objects,  as  we  find  in  Ostade, — a  space  better  suited 
for  the  development  of  perspective  effects — these  could  but  have  been  injin-ious  to  Teniers' 
figures.  The  latter  works  through  intelligence  in  his  physiognomies,  Ostade  depends  upon 
the  lighting  up  of  his  faces.  With  Ostade,  the  situation  is  the  chief  agency  in  awakening  our 
feelings;  Teniers  employs  himself  only  with  characters  which  are  less  calculated  to  engage  our 
feelings  than  to  claim  our  close  observation.  Teniers,  exquisitely  as  he  luiderstands  painting, 
effects  more  through  the  drawing  of  his  heads;  Ostade,  with  respect  to  the  character  of  his 
figures,  is  very  indiffei-ent,  caring  only  that  they  should  admit  of  a  strong  play  of  light 
and  shade. 

Besides  these  inward  reasons  for  the  extraordinany  sim])licity  of  Teniers'  scenery,  he 
had  also  an  external  motive  for  so  frequently  re[)eating  the  same  composition.  In  Teniers' 
time,  in  the  Netherlands  there  prevailed  a  great  rage  for  art.  It  was  even  dilKcult  for  the 
connoisseur  to  recognize  the  painters  of  the  shoals  of  pictures  in  the  market.  The  conseijuence 
was  that  if  the  artists  had  painted  a  picture  which  created  a  great  sensation,  they  continued 
to  apply  the  same  arrangements  which  had  gained  them  reputation,  in  order  to  appear  before 
the  public  in  their  already  acknowledged  greatness.  It  was  not  long  before  the  peculiarity 
of  the  painter  became  impressed  upon  the  minil  of  the  public.  This  is  one  of  the  chief  reasons 
why  we  find  pictures  so  often  repeated:  for  instance,  Dow,  with  his  open  window  and  brick- 
work: Tei'burg,  the  lady  in  a  satin  dress;  Wouwerman,  the  grey  horse;  Rembrandt,  the  old 
heads;  Mieris,  the  musical  instruments,  &c.  The  object  of  these  peculiarities  was  to  invest 
the  pictures  with  a  stamp  of  the  genuine  article,  though  it  certainly  aided  the  manufacture 
of  pictures  passed  off  and  sold — especially  abroad — for  those  of  the  respective  masters. 

There  are  eighteen  pictures  by  Teniers  the  younger  in  the  Belvedere  Gallery:  The 
Betrothed  Couple,  bearing  the  date  of  1640:  Robbers  plundering  a  village — a  vigorous 
production,  presenting  great  similarity  to  the  banditti  scenes  which  Peter  von  Laar,  in  his 
middle  period,  used  to  point ;  The  Sausage-maker,  a  young  woman  busied  in  making  sausages, 
and  a  boy;  in  the  back-ground  several  country  folks  and  a  peasant  woman  at  the  fire-place; 
An  Old  Man  detected  by  his  wife  while  making  love  to  the  maid  in  the  kitchen,  dated 
1677;  A  Country  Fair  in  the  Netherlands  (the  original  of  those  extant  in  other  places,  but 
undoubtedly  often  repeated  by  the  master  himself);  The  celebrated  picture  of  The  Picture 
Gallery;  Peasant's  shooting  with  cross-bows;  Half  length  portrait  of  an  old  man;  The  long 
train  (dancers);  Argus  outwitted  by  Mercury;  Peasants'  room  with  the  newspaper  reader; 
Peasants'  room  with  a  woman  cutting  tobacco;  The  kitchen-maid;  Shepherd  and  sheep; 
Shepherd  boy,  with  a  flute  in  his  hand,  and  goats;  A  young  man  in  a  black  cloak:  Abraham 
offering  thanks  on  Mount  Moriali;  Winter-landscape. 


-'  ^'>£ncfvsc 


^i-e^^z^C-y^^^-a^^^^z^.  c^^  (Lyyx^(M!^u?^ 


'/^^ 


1  schen    Kiinstanstrii 


A     MATKON.    AF'I'KK     I'Al'l,     KKMHKANiri'.  315 


A    MATRON, 

At'TtR 

PAVL   BEMBRANDT. 


llembrandt's  peculiar  style  of  jjainting  is  especially  adapted  for  the  portraits  of  old 
persons.  The  gradations  of  his  lights  and  shadows,  with  respect  to  the  form  of  suVjiects, 
re(|uire  more  sharpness  and  contrast  than  the  smooth,  delicate  features  of  a  youthful 
countenance  jjossess.  Rembrandt's  "beautiful  young  maidens"  have  therefore  never  attained 
any  great  celebrity,  so  much  the  more,  however,  the  matrons,  amongst  whom  that  with  the 
staff  is  one  of  the  very  finest. 


MARIA    THERESA, 

AFTER 

ANTON    MAEON. 


We  enter  the  Belvedere  palace,  that  noble  work  of  Johann  Lukas  Hildebrand,  and, 
having  reached  the  great  marble  .saloon,  we  are  surrounded  bj-  the  architectural  splendour 
displayed  by  Gaetano  Fanti  and  Marc  Antonio  Chiarini.  We  look  above,  and  our  eye  is 
attracted  by  the  cheerful,  animated  allegories  executed  on  the  ceiling  by  Carlo  Carlone. 

The  first  oil  pictures  which  we  see  are  by  the  hand  of  Anton  Maron.  They  are  the 
portraits  of  the  Emjjeror  Joseph  II.  and  his  illustrious  mother,  Maria  Theresa,  placed 
respectively  at  the  right  and  left  of  the  entrance  to  the  saloon.  The  pictures  are  ten  feet 
in  height  and  five  in  breadth,  presenting  an  imposing  but  quiet,  uuaffieeted  appearance. 
Although  we  cannot  fail  to  appreciate  the  merit  in  ihe  portrait  of  the  Emperor,  still,  our  eye 
is  very  soon  withdrawn  from  it,  and  led  to  that  of  the  heroic  Maria  Theresa,  owing  to  the 
superior  manner  in  which  the  costume  of  the  Empress  is  treated,  and  which  prevents  the 
^  feeling  of  a  certain  appearance  of  vacuity  from  intruding  itself 

The  Empress  is  seated  at  her  work  table,  provided  with  books  and  writing  materials; 
in  one  hand  she  holds  the  plan  of  a  fortification,  to  the  consideration  of  which  a  movement 
of  the  other  invites  us.  The  hands  and  arms  are  wonderfully  painted,  and  come  out  in 
strojig  relief  from  the  dark  dress.  On  her  noble  head  she  wears  a  widow's  cap  from  which 
.depends  a  long  black  veil.  Behind  her  chair  is  a  column  with  rich  flowing  drapery — 
(a  striking  symbol  of  the  heroine.  In  the  back-ground  is  a  figure  with  wreaths  of  victory 
■iccompanied  by  two  genii.  Although  the  auxiliaries  are  worked  up  so  as  to  render  them 
of  considerable  importance,   all   the  minutia;   of  ornament  belonging   to  the  table,   and   the 

40* 


316  THE    GALLERIES    OE    VIENNA.. 

brilliant  figured  carpet  heino;  s^crupulously  marked,  still,  our  attention  is  rivetted  to  the  figure 
of  the  Empress — ccitninly  not  one  of  the  least  important  essentials  in  a  portrait  piece.  It  is 
the  taste  of  the  eighteenth  centnry  which  meets  us  in  this  work — proud  and  confident  of 
victory — refinement  and  splendour,  accompanied  by  ;iu  allusion  to  Olympus,  untouched  by 
the  atmosphere  of  which  it  would  seem  that  the  artists  of  that  time  did  not  think  it  con- 
ceivable that  powerful  and  distinguished  personages  could  exist.  By  the  side  uf  this 
unavoidable  mythology — which  in  this  picture  is  kept  in  moderate  bounds — the  convincing 
truth  to  nature  tells  with  undiminished  force.  Those  who  have  never  seen  a  finished  port)ait 
of  the  greatest  woman  of  the  last  century  will,  on  viewing  this  picture  of  the  Empress  Maria 
Theres;  by  ^Iaron,  feel  that  they  have  before  them  the  finest  ])ortrait  that  exists  of  this  princess. 

Tlie  capabilities  of  Anton  Maron  were,  judging  from  their  remarks,  not  held  in  the 
highest  estimation  by  Goethe  and  Winckelmann.  (ioethe  pronounces  liim  incompetent  of 
producing  a  composition  full  of  meaning,  and  attractive,  "he  is  not  able  to  produce  ativ 
extraordinary  appearance."  In  this  awkward  style  of  art-criticism,  usual  at  that  time,  there 
is  some  truth  in  the  judgment  expressed,  inasmuch  as  Maron  did  not  belong  to  the  number 
of  great  inventive  geniuses  in  majestic  coni|)Osition,  who  were  able  to  free  themselves  from 
that  typical  mannerism,  falsely  called  classic,  which  had  been  used  to  satiety.  At  that  time 
it  was  considered  impossible  to  reproduce  natural  appearances  without  translating  them  into 
the  language  of  mythology  and  allegory.  To  represent  them  as  they  were  became  by  degrees 
to  be  considered  unworthy  ol  art.  If  anywliei%,  it  was  on  this  point  that  Kubens  cxcicised 
his  most  wide-felt  influence.  His  arsenal  of  attributes,  his  approximation  to  mvtliolc)i;y  and 
allegory,  which  in  his  own  pictures  jn-esented  themselves  so  coldly  before  the  spectator,  had 
become  a  crutch  on  which  all  the  pictures(|ue  representations  of  the  eigliteenth  centurj-  limped 
along.  It  would  be  unjust  to  fix  upon  Anton  Maron  as  the  only  one,  and  to  make  liiin 
responsible  for  this  confusion  of  taste.  The  artist  possessed  mind  sufficient  to  ind)ue  Jiis 
portraits  with  intellect,  and  sagacity  enough  in  his  concejitions  to  endow  his  figures  with  their 
full  properties  and  effects  without  intrudmg  into  his  subjects  anything  foreign  to  them  in  form 
and  character:  an  enconium  to  which  other  great  j)ortrait  painters  of  the  past  century,  lor 
instance,  Angelica  Kaufmann,  and  even  Raphael  Mengs,  were  not  always  entitled  to  lay  claim; 
for,  be  it  observed,  they  were  by  no  means  able  to  originate  new  and  striking  phenomena. 

Anton  Maron  was  a  Viennese,  and  born  in  the  year  1773.  When  quite  a  young  man 
he  rei>aired  tr»  Kome,  where  Raphael  Mengs  was  then  at  the  height  of  his  reputation,  and 
Anton  soon  became  acknowledged  as  the  most  distinguished  scholar  of  this  master.  They 
both  possessed  a  very  refined  taste,  a  correct  eye  for  avoiding  faults,  a  subtil  feeling  for 
colouring,  together  with  considerable  talent  for  imitation — in  sliurt,  they  were  both  born 
eclectics,  though  they  wanted  that  element,  had  they  been  pro\ided  with  which,  they  wnnld 
not  have  been  eclectics — the  unrestricted  idea  of  art,  assisted  by  strong  powers  of  imagination. 
They  would  both  have  been  lost  sight  of,  and  soon  forgotten,  l)ut  tiiat  a  new  life  began 
to  shew  itself  in  art,  when  poetry  and  criticism — the  latter  by  Kant  and  Lessing  entering 
into  the  philosO]ihy  of  plastic  art — had  opened  a  new-  path.  A\'inckelniann,  in  iiis  archa-ological 
and  Olympic  legions  altogether  inaccessii)le  to  the  majority  of  artists, exercised  but  a  secondary 
influence  upon  painting;  at  the  same  time  he  jirovcd  that  the  sculptural  element  nuist  remain 
as  existing  for  itself;  but  he  was  also  persuaded  that,  after  all,  painting  depended  upon 
8cul[)ture  and  from  it   must   look   for   its   restoration   to    health — an    o[)ini()n,   against  which 


f       ■  //  -      ' 


s 


^^ 


f 


MILKING,    AFTER    N.    BEROIIEM.  :{)7 

Lessiiiff,  notwitli!!tnnfrin<i;  his  iinocrtainty  about  the  "limits"  hetwecn  the  two  plnstic  ;irt8, 
broufjlit  forw  ;inl  many  cojijent  arjjumcnts. 

Winckilmann.  of  whom  a  but  slightly  irrcvcrcntial  critic  mijjht  easily  prove  that  even 
"ho"  in  his  riii'<taken  knowledge  of  the  nature  and  the  range  of  painting  might  make  the 
antique  sculpture  the  governing  ])rincij)le.  and  thus  would  begin  again  where  Lorenzo  (ihiberti 
and  Masaccio  had  already  been,  and  where  the  great  Michel  Angclo  in  vain  endeavoured  to 
penetrate-  Winckelmann  it  was,  who  especially  called  forth  a  sort  of  depreciatory  feeling  for 
Anton  Maron,  after  this  painter  presented  to  the  admiration  of  posterity  the  great  archicologist 
without  a  wig;  with  only  a  silken  nightkerchief  to  cover  the  naked  scidl,  and  rather  dangerously 
resembling  an  old  grand-mother.  While  everyone  knows  this  porti-ait  of  Winckelmann  with 
the  sleeping  turban,  Kaufmann's  portrait — elegant,  but  failing  in  likeness  — remained  imknown 
to  the  public  in  general. 

In  addition  to  a  great  nuinber  of  portraits  of  high  or  renowned  persons,  Maron 
painted  historical  pieces;  for  this  department  of  the  art,  however,  the  ])owers  of  the  painter 
seem  to  be  totally  inadequate.  His  talent  for  com])osition  did  not  keej)  pace  with  his  ideas. 
As  regards  the  history  of  the  fine  arts,  Maron,  together  with  Mengs,  Camillo  Buti,  the 
architect,  has  the  merit  of  having  luade  accessible  to  an  extensive  circle  of  admirers  of  art 
the  antique  wall  and  ceiling  pictures  of  the  Villa  Negroni,  in  Home,  discoved  in  1 777. 
These  form  a  series  of  twelve  plates,  engraved  by  Campauella,  Vitali,  and  Carattoui,  and 
entitled:   Pitture  anticlie  della   Villa  Negroni. 

Maron  died  in  Kome  in  the  year  1808. 


M  I  L  K  I  N  G, 

AFTEK 

N.    B  E  R  6  H  E  M. 


This  is  one  of  the  few  pictures  of  Berghem's  in  which  the  style  of  the  master  is 
scarcely  to  be  recognized.  Berghem,  who  shewed  a  decided  preference  for  a  variety  of 
auxiliaries  in  his  landscape  scenes,  has  introduced  unusually  little  detail  in  his  picture  of 
"Milking."  In  a  desolate  country  stands  a  peasant's  hut,  roughly  put  together  with  boards 
and  thatched  ^vith  straw,  in  front  of  which  a  few  sheep  and  a  cow  are  enjoying  their 
afternoon  repose,  while  another  cow  is  being  milked.  The  damsel  in  the  fore-ground,  who 
has  already  milked  the  sheep,  is  about  to  pour  the  contents  of  her  little  mug  into  the  milk 
jiail,  when  she  discovers  to  her  dismay  that  a  dog  is  helping  himself  to  the  milk  out  of 
another  milk  pail.    The  view  is  closed  in  the  middle-ground  Ijy  a  barren  bill. 

The  picture  altogether  has  something  very  homely  about  it;  it  possesses  a  quiet 
retirement  and  an  almost  melancholy  nature  quite  contrary  to  Berghem's  pictures  in  general. 
Therefore,  there  reigns  a  more  truthful  character  in  this  piece  than  Master  Berghem,  as  a 
rule,  usually  chose  to  adopt.    The  precision  in  the  animal  figiu-es  and  the  lively  association 


318  THE    GALLERIES    OP    VIENNA. 

between  the  milK-maid  and  the  milk-thief  lead  to  the  conclusion  that  the  painter,  contrary  to 
his  custom,  produced  this  picture  from  real  life.  The  masterly  style  in  which  this  piece  is 
executed  precludes  the  supposition  of  its  being  one  of  hie  early  pieces. 


MARINO    FALIERO, 

AFTER 

FRANZ    FITNEB. 

Of  the  many  tragedies  of  which  Old  Venice  has  been  the  scene  of  action,  scarcely 
one  is  so  well  known  as  that  in  which  the  Doge  himself  was  forced  to  act  the  chief  part  in 
a  sanguinary  sacrifice.  Since  Lord  Byron's  "Falieri"  appeared,  most  people  know  that 
amidst  the  series  of  the  Doges'  portraits  in  the  senate  hall  of  Venice  one  place  is  vacant,  on 
which  appear  the  i'ollowing  words:  Hie  est  locus  Marini  Fnleri.  pro  eriminibus  deeopitati- — 
this  is  the  place  of  Marino  Falieri,  beheaded  for  his  crimes. 

Falieri  had  resolved,  at  one  stroke,  to  put  an  end  to  the  power  of  the  aristocratic 
rulers  of  Venice.  All  the  senators  were  to  be  murdered  on  the  15th  April,  1355.  This 
-avage  resolution  emanated  from  an  incident,  in  itself  of  a  trifling  nature.  Michele  Steno, 
a  noble,  sought  to  gain  the  affections  of  a  young  lady  in  the  suite  of  the  Dogaressa,  but  in 
vain.  To  the  latter  Steno  attributed  the  repulse  he  had  receiveil,  and,  at  a  festival,  wrote  on 
the  chair  of  the  Doge  who  was  eighty  six  years  old:  "AJarino  Falieri  dalla  bella  moglie,  altri 
la  gode  ed  egli  la  mantiene.^'  Steno  was  arraigned  by  the  Doge,  was,  however,  not  condeumed 
to  banishment  for  life,  but  simply  to  a  short  term  of  imprisonment  for  his  indiscretion. 
This  was  the  cause  which  raised  the  ire  of  Falieri  against  the  kinsmen  of  Steno,  and 
ultimately  against  the  Senate  who  protected  him,  when  the  Doge's  wrath  was  not  to  be 
pacified.  Shortly  before  the  day  fixed  upon  for  this  massacre  Falieri  received,  through 
Nicolo  Lioni,  a  warning  that  all  was  discovered,  and  urging  the  necessity  of  immediate 
flight.  The  proud  Doge,  however,  ordered  his  Slavonians  under  arms,  and  ridiculed  liis 
adversaries  whose  destruction  he  held  as  certain.  But  on  the  14th  April,  late  in  the  evening, 
when  Falieri  had  issued  his  last  orders  with  regard  to  the  massacre,  the  Senate  arose  in  its 
lidl  and  terrible  majesty.  The  leaders  of  the  conspiracy  were  captured  with  the  greatest 
secrecy,  and  the  officers  of  justice  conducted  by  one  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  in  spite  of  the 
guard,  found  their  way  into  Falieri's  chamber  and  took  the  Doge  prisoner.  Three  days 
afterwards  Falieri  was  decapitated  on  the  great  stairs  of  the  Doge's  palace. 

Pitner  has  chosen  for  his  picture  the  moment  when  the  Doge  receives  the  mysterious 
warning.  This  piece  likewise  shews  the  talent  of  the  painter  for  light  and  easy  composition, 
and  for  clearness  of  expression. 


FUner/ii 


IffyenA  sc 


c_-^^W«;;^^^<;?-'c_^^?^^«i^^^^i>^ 


^  dEn^BcketiKunatarslaltv  AH  Payne  ' 


9ATANS    OVKKTHROW,    AKIF.lf    LUCA    OIOROANO.  3|;) 

SATAN'S    OVER  111  ROW, 


AKIKR 

LUCA    OIOSDANO. 


Giordano  ia  one  of  the  most  peculiar  phenomena  amongst  the  painters  of  the  seven- 
teenth century.  With  splendid  endowments,  not  too  weak  to  reach  the  highest  point  of  ;irt, 
perfectly  well  acquainted  with  the  most  elevated  problems  of  art  and  witii  liis  own  powers, 
he  stepped  forward  with  a  nonchalant  frivolity,  and  flattering  his  cotenii)oriirios  by  yielding 
to  their  degraded  taste,  he  produced  vast  numbers  of  pictures  to  satisfy  his  ])ro])ensity  for 
luxurious  living. 

To  this  painter  no  difSculties  presented  themselves  either  in  subject,  drawing,  com- 
position, or  execution.  He  painted  with  equal  facility  historical,  landscape,  genre,  and 
mythological  pieces,  or  portraits;  even  more,  he  painted  not  <;opies  only,  but  original 
pieces  in  the  style  of  any  of  the  great  masters,  either  upon  commission,  or  because  he 
happened  to  be  in  the  humour  to  do  so.  As  the  nightingale  of  Mexico  imitates  the  song 
of  all  other  birds,  with  the  same  ease  could  Giordano^the  mocking-l>ird  of  the  painters — 
imitate  other  masters  with  as  much  freedom  as  *hough  their  style  were  his  own.  In  this 
respect  his  dexterity  was  almost  wonderful.  His  cotemporaries  called  him,  in  tlicir 
astonishment  "the  lightning-flash  of  painting."  Could  Giordano  but  have  made  up  his 
mind  to  persevere,  and  earnestly  follow  out  the  principles  of  any  of  the  great  masters 
whom  was  able  to  imitate  with  such  masterj',  this  painter  would  infallibly  have  been  the 
Rubens  of  Italy. 

He  cared  little  about  art,  therefore  did  not  seriouslj'  enter  into  any  feeling  for  it  — 
he  treated  is  as  "Maccaroni,''  for  so  the  Neapolitans  call  everything  which  is  of  no  value. 
He  could  in  his  own  compositions  so  closely  imitate  the  styles  of  Raphael,  Tizian,  Rubens, 
Bassano,  Veronese,  and  even  the  almost  inimitable  Diirer  that,  in  fact,  the  eye  of  the 
connoisseur  was  for  a  long  time  deceived.  After  completing  one  of  these  really  wonderful 
pictures,  for  which  he  received  extraordinary  prices,  he  set  to  work  with  indifference,  and, 
witliout  taking  the  trouble  to  make  even  a  slight  sketch  for  the  composition,  painted  those 
large  pictures,  so  full  of  figures,  and  displaying  such  luxuriousness  of  colour;  the  most 
remarkable  properties  of  which  consist  in  the  rapidity  with  « hich  they  \\  ere  got  up. 

Giordano  is  the  most  perfect  type  of  the  Neapolitan  character  in  art.  No  painter 
surpasses  him  in  power  of  imagination,  and  his  creative  pow-er,  originally  of  equal  greatness, 
only  lags  behind  it  when  called  upon  to  rise  in  an  ideal  flight,  or  to  solve  a  problem  which 
rc(|uires  to  be  exactly  characterised.  Here  (iiordano's  Neapolitan  indolence  is  ap])arent. 
Why  fatigue  one's  self?  Maccaroni!  He  is  insinuating,  he  dazzles,  for  a  little  time  even 
seduces;  but  the  mercurial  mobility  of  his  tem]ierament  hinders  him  from  the  pursuance  of 
his  object,  which,  while  he  endeavours  to  reach  if,  almost  always  loses  its  attractive  power 
for  him.  There  is  an  impassioned  fire  burning  in  Giordano  which  might  lead  him  to  the 
highest  point,  were  it  not  that  he  scatters  the  glowing  brand  and  the  kin<lling  sparks  to  the 
winds.     One  moment  bursting  forth  like  a  voliiino,   the  next  cold,  indifferent — he  forgets  his 


320  THE    OALIJiRlES    OF    VIENNA. 

emotions,  his  pain,  and  amuses  himself  in  the  almost  childish  manner  of  a  Lazzarone.  Giordano 
is  never  wanting  in  imagination,  but  nearly  always  in  the  desire  steadily  to  exercise  it.  Instead 
of  working  he  plays.  He  is  not  the  self-denying  artist  who  exerts  his  powers  to  raise  sterling 
treasures  which  he  generously  places  at  the  service  of  the  world.  Giordano  painted  chiefly 
to  please  himself,  for  his  own  amusement:  it  never  entered  his  head  to  make  a  trouble  out 
of  this  amusement  for  the  purpose  of  pleasing  other  people.  He  gives  in  hie  pictures  an 
excellent  idea  of  Naples,  with  the  splendid  sky  and  brilliant  effect  of  light  and  colour,  with 
a  world  of  diversified  forms  which  seem  to  melt  away  in  the  glowing  rays  of  the  sim;  Life 
passes  carelessly,  lightly,  free  from  pain,  and  even  without  the  pleasure  which  an  exaltation 
and  exertion  of  the  mind  |)re8uj)j)0ses,  but  especially  without  work.     Viva  il  far  niente! 

If  Giordano's  talent,  from  the  first,  had  been  properly  cultivated  it  would  have  borne 
sound  and  noble  fruit.  But  in  his  earliest  youth  his  endowments  were  called  into  requisition. 
His  father,  Antonio  (iiovanno,  a  very  mediocre  painter,  as  soon  as  Luca  could,  with  difficulty, 
guide  his  pencil  lost  no  time  in  turning  the  boy's  work  into  money.  Young  Luca  entered 
the  school  of  John  Riberas,  Spagnoletto,  where  his  time  was  principally  occupied  in  copying 
the  miserable  pictures  of  saints  by  this  master;  these,  too,  Signor  Antonio  knew  how  to 
dispose  of  amongst  the  country  people  and  fishermen.  The  proud  Spaniard  on  discovering 
this  system  of  trading  on  the  part  of  the  father,  sent  the  scholar  away.  Antonio  was  too 
well  convinced  of  Luca's  talent,  therefore  would  not  place  him  under  a  second-rate  painter 
in  Naples.  He  soon  made  up  his  mind,  and  proceeded  to  Rome,  where  the  indulgent  Pietro 
da  Cortona  received  the  boy  as  his  scholar.  Luca  made  rapid  strides  and  learnt  the  use  of 
abrupt  contrast  and  the  treatment  of  breadth  of  light,  which  in  his  later  pictures  are  often 
repeated  and  reflect  credit  on  Master  Pietro. 

However,  Antonio  could  not  possibly  grant  his  son  so  much  time  as  the  work  in 
Cortona's  atelier  required.  The  father  foimd  out  a  way  by  which  Luca  might  study,  and, 
at  the  same  time,  earn  money — he  obliged  him  to  copy  the  most  striking  master-pieces.  As 
Luca  had  acquired  considerhble  dexterity,  it  was  not  difficult  for  the  father  to  turn  his 
son's  studies  to  account.  When  demands  for  his  copies  were  made,  the  poor  fellow  was 
compelled  to  copy — we  will  mention  a  few  only—  the  Loggi  of  Raphael,  in  the  Vatican 
twelve  times,  the  Slaughter  of  Constantine  above  twenty  times,  Michel  Angelo's  gigantic 
work  "The  last  Judgment,"  in  the  Sixtina,  five  times.  The  better  these  and  other  copies 
were  paid,  so  much  the  harder  had  Luca  to  work.  It  is  related,  but  perhaps  it  is  an 
exaggerated  account,  that  father  Antonio  put  the  food  into  the  mouth  of  his  slave  in  order 
that  his  pencil  might  have  no  rest.  The  eternally  repeated,  Luca,  fa  presto!  quick!  sounded 
in  the  ears  of  the  young  artist  from  morning  till  night.  The  youth  was  the  most  rapid 
painter  next  to  Rubens,  and  fully  merited  the  nick-name  of  Luca  fa  presto!  In  the  restless 
working  of  his  youthful  days,  the  painter  seems  to  have  lost  for  ever  the  real,  proper 
spirit  for  his  art.  Fa  presto!  That  remained  his  device.  With  his  own  pictures,  however, 
the  young  artist  could  not  get  on  in  Rome.  Pietro  Berettini  da  Cortona,  with  an  extra- 
ordinary readiness  of  hand,  and  possessed  of  a  still  greater  power  of  conception,  monopolised 
the  art  and  understood,  just  all  well  as  Antonio,  how  to  convert  the  talents  of  his  scholars 
into  money.  Next  to  Cortona  were  the  scholars  of  Guido  Reni,  who  strove  by  typical  forms 
after  the  antique  to  produce  a  magnificent  general  effect,  and  the  successors  of  the  effeminate 
Francesco  Albani,  whose  elaborately  ornamented  pictures  enjoyed  the  decided  favour  of  the 


SATAN'S    OVEKTHKOAV.    AFIKU    MCA    fJIORDAXd.  ■^2[ 


pu 


Mir.  FmIIici-  Aiitcniio  saw  thai,  in  a  )]ccniiiary  |iiiin(  iif  \\v\\,  liiit  an  uiisatiHfaetory 
l)Lisiness  could  he  done  in  lionic,  and  i|nicUiy  deturniinud  on  gciinu'  liaciv  lo  Natilc.-,  in  order 
to  make  out  of  liis  Luca  tlic  Neapolitan  rielro  Verettini. 

Soon  after  his  arrival  in  Najjles,  Giordano  succeeded  in  i;ettin;i-  to  jiainl  .-oine  Iar"e 
frescoes  whieli  he  treated  after  tlie  manner  of  Tintoretto.  "Willi  this  master  as  well  as  with 
Giulio  Eoniano,  (iiordano  had  been  endowed  by  nature,  with  a  similarity  of  character.  Hv 
the  side  of  the  dazzling  oil  pictures  of  Giordano  whicii,  moreover,  generally  recommended 
themselves  by  the  richness  of  their  eonrejition,  the  works  of  tlic  imitators  of  Spao-noletto 
with  their  glaring,  heavy  colouring,  their  awkward  arrangement,  and  their  subject  matter 
intended  ciiieHy  to  excite  painful  sensations,  could  not  long  maintain  their  ground.  The 
Neapolitans,  although  they  by  no  means  objected  to  these  horrible,  hang-man  scenes  of  the 
Spagnolettini,  which  are  enougii  to  make  one's  hair  stand  ou  an  end,  as  being  exaggerated, 
became  at  length  sated  with  these  sanguinary  exhibitions  and  transferred  tiieir  admiration 
with  the  more  zest  to  the  brilliant  life  in  the  i)ictures  of  Giordano. 

The  painter  having  once  attained  a  reputation  jjainted  every  tiling  as  it  came.  What 
he  could  not  overcome  by  the  excellence  of  his  work  was  overwhelmed  by  the  immensity 
of  the  mass.  In  a  short  time  there  was  not  a  single  suljstantial  house  in  Na]iies  tliat  did  not 
possess  a  work  of  /,»(•«  faiwesto;  he  never  reiused  a  commission  and,  like  a  manufacturer, 
it  may  be  said,  sold  his  goods  by  the  yard. 

Giordano  was  never  at  a  loss,  the  meanest  and  the  most  majestic  subjects  he  handled 
with  equal  facility.  Like  a  Kubens,  he  thought  in  pictures.  Kverything  seemed  ready  prepared 
for  his  hand,  and  his  fancy  being  directed  more  to  general  appearance  than  to  particulars, 
when  it  did  not  range  wide  enough,  his  technical  skill  and  his  eminent  memory  served  him 
to  supply  the  deficiency.  He  is  never  in  a  dilemma  with  regard  to  filling  u|)  the  space  in 
his  pictures  with  suitable  figures.  "He  who  has  been  in  hell  as  often  as  1  ha\'e,"'  he  used 
to  say,  in  allusion  to  hell  in  JNIichel  Angelo's  "Last  Judgment"  which  contains  figures  in 
the  most  forced  attitudes  that  ever  a  painter  designed,  "is  not  afraid  of  anything.'" 

While  a  whole  series  of  Giordano's  pictures,  beyond  the  remarkable  facility  of  the  design, 
v^'ere  characterized  by  little  more  than  a  brilliant  colouring  and  an  effective  introduction 
of  light,  still,  single  pieces  appeared  which  displayed  a  decidedly  higher  caste.  To  these 
belong  the  frescoes  in  the  Tesoro  of  the  Chartreuse  with  seperate  grand  compartments,  for 
instance,  the  brazen  serpent  set  up  in  the  wilderness,  around  which  assemble  the  multitude 
of  Jews  who  are  seized  and  lorn  to  pieces  by  the  serpents  of  death.  In  a  spirit  of  emulation 
with  Francesco  de  Maria — likewise  a  rapid  painter  of  first  rate  talent — ( Jiordano  painted  the 
dome  of  St.  Bridget's  church  and  jji'oduced  an  excellent  work.  The  Jesuits  received  from 
Luca,  who  here  stood  prominent  as  an  unsurpassed  Fa  presto,  a  large  picture  representing 
St.  Francis  Xavier  baptizing  the  Japanese — a  work,  which  the  artist  in  order  to  shew  his 
rajiidity — completed  in  a  day  and  a  half.  The  Regent,  on  seeing  this  picture  with  its 
numerous  figures,  is  said  to  have  exclaimed,  "He  wlu)  could  paint  this  picture  in  a  day 
and  a  half  must  either  be  an  angel  or  an  evil  spirit!"  It  was  in  fact  a  bad  spirit  in  art,  the 
spirit  of  wantonness,  contempt  for  that  which  was  noble,  perfect,  really  enduring  which  tried 
to  raise  to  the  throne  art  turned  into  a  trade. 

Gosmus  III  called  Giordano  to  Florence,  where  he  executed  a  few  large  picture-  most 
worthy  of  remark.     On  the  day  of  his  arrival  he  gained  for  ever  the  favour  of  this  Prince, 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  41 


322  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

for  he  set  up  his  ease),  prepared  his  palette,  and  in  two  hours  produced  a  full  length,  lil'e-size 
figure  of  the  Prince— and  the  likeness  proved  to  Ije  excellent.  The  most  celebrated  work  by 
tliis  master  is  his  painting  of  the  Kiccardi  gallery,  for  the  most  part  charming  comjiositions 
which  are  l)ettcr  known  liirough  the  engravings  i'rom  liiem.  There  is  also  merit  in  the 
Bacchanal  pictures  in  the  Palazzo  del  Rosso. 

The  renown  of  the  rapid  iiaintcr  had  also  reached  Sjiain.  King  Charles  II.,  pmud 
of  a  subject  like  (iiordano,  called  the  artist  to  the  court  of  Maiiriil.  lie  likewise  gained  the 
favour  of  this  monarch  in  a  few  days  after  his  presence  in  the  Spanish  capital,  owing  to  his 
having  painted  according  to  his  own  invention  a  companion  picture  to  an  admired  piece  by 
Jacopo  Bassano,  executed  (juite  in  the  style  of  Pontes. 

The  Escurial  opened  its  gates  to  Giordano  who  fearlessly  set  to  work  to  ornament  the 
immense  walls  and  ai'clics  of  this  monastery  with  pictm'cs.  Much  may  be  urged  against  the 
frescoes  of  (iiordani  in  the  Escurial;  this  mucii,  howe\er,  is  certain,  tiiat  they  alone  would 
suffice  to  render  inunortal  the  name  of  the  artist  who  jiroduced  them,  llichuess  in  the  number 
of  figures;  ^■ariety  in  the  action;  force  and  grandeur  in  tiic  composition;  excpiisite  draping; 
and  mellow  colouring  winch  still  appears  as  fi'esh  as  if  only  recently  laid  on  by  the  brush — 
these  beauties  in  the  frescoes  of  the  Escurial  are  not  to  be  dis[)Utcd.  Here  may  be  seen  the 
Annunciation  and  C!oncei)tion  of  Mary,  the  Birth  of  Christ,  tlie  Adoration  of  the  Shepherds, 
Angel  and  Kings,  Sibyls,  scenes  illustrating  the  Teaching  and  Sufferings  of  the  Saviour, 
Hosts  of  Angels  and  Saints  soaring  in  Bliss,  the  Triumph  of  the  Ciuu'ch,  Maria  \  ictrix  on 
the  triumphal  Chariot,  the  Death  of  the  Virgin  Mary',  the  Last  Judgment,  subjects  from  the 
Old  Testament,  the  Flood,  ti>e  lixodus  of  the  Children  of  Israel,  the  Victory  over  Amalck,  &c. 
According  to  an  inscription,  thescpieces  were  produced  by  7>»cn  fa  presto  in  seven  nmnths: 
whether  this  be  true  or  not,  they  were  jiainted  in  an  almost  incredildy  short  time,  and  lor 
the  production  of  which  most  other  masters  would  have  required  as  many  years,  as  they  had 
cost  Giordano  months.  Besides  these,  there  are  in  the  palace  of  Buen  Retiro,  in  St.  Antonio 
important  frescoes  by  this  master,  which,  together  with  those  in  the  Escurial,  might  asstn-edly 
be  placed  by  the  side  of  the  works  of  Giulio  Romano  and  Annibal  Caracci  without  sutfei-ing 
much  by  the  comparison.  If,  says  Lanzi,  Giordano  in  his  best  days  had  always  worked 
in  this  manner,  some  would  not  have  maintained  that  the  example  of  the  Neapolitan  had 
operated  prejudically  on  the  Sjianish  school  of  painting.  Besides,  in  Giordano's  time  there 
was  certainly  not  much  more  to  spoil. 

Thirteen  years  afterwards,  after  the  death  of  Charles  II.,  Giordano,  renowned  as  the 
greatest  painter  of  the  time,  and  with  a  princely  Ibrtuue,  returned  to  Naples  Although 
advanced  in  years,  Giordano  had  neither  lost  his  mental  powers  nor  his  freedom  of  hand. 
He  died,  seventy-three  years  old,  in  170,5. 

Of  (iiordano's  jiroductions,  not  merely  as  Fa  presto,  "Satan's  Overthrow,"  in  the 
Belvedere  Gallery,  will  give  an  idea.  Armed  with  the  flaming  sword,  the  Archangel  Michael 
descends  from  the  regions  of  light  to  cast  Satan  and  his  offspring  into  the  abyss  of  hell. 
Observe  the  ^\rchangcl,  and  compare  it  with  Raphaels  St.  Micliael,  armed  with  a  spear;  the 
oj)inion  of  Mengs  will  hold  good,  \\z.,  that  the  imitation  by  (jiordano  might  deceive  those 
unacquainted  with  the  intrinsic  beauties  of  Rapiiacl. 

A  sweet  smile  spreads  over  the  face  of  (iiordano's  trium[ihant  Archangel  who  dances 
gracefully  on  the  figure  of  Satan;   whereas  Raphael's  Michael  rushes,   insensible  of  joy  or 


/y^^ly^yv.^y^yy^^y^y- » 


■nil':  t  iM;i;i':si'(iM)KNr,   ai'ii:i;   (!|-i;.\I{|)    i'ickdiijc;.  :^o:{ 

of  rage,  treads  down  Satan,  and  laiiiulus  out  tlio  spear — wliicli  lie  liolds  witli  liotli  Ininds, 
(ho  point  downwards  and  ifives  tlu;  I'rince  of  Darkness  the  (h'adly  woniid.  Kafyhael's  AiijicI 
is  like  file  liijIifninL;',  tlie  dreadfni  inesscnu'er  of  tlie  Al]inii;li(y  and  qnick  as  llionjrjil  fnKilis 
His  command — Oiordano  lias  paiiilrd  an  aelor  who  willi  ((insidtTaliie  sclf-satipfactinn  plays 
tlic  cliaracter  oi'  Mielinel. 

On  the  otiicr  hand,  (iiordano"s  Satan,  who  still  struggles  in  despair,  while  his  satellites, 
howling,  gaze  on  the  victory  of  the  mighty  being,  or,  horrified,  fait  into  the  gidf.  This 
re|iresentation  of  lull  is  supplied  with  some  humorous  features,  like  those -though  not 
]lreei^!ely  in  the  .-aiue  way — which  |iresen(  themselves  in  Michel  Angelo's  picture.  When 
we  consider  the  ease  of  the  composition,  the  energy  in  the  actimi,  the  hcauliful  dispositimi 
of  the  light,  and  the  striking  contrast  of  colour  so  l)eautifully  halanced  hy  nieaiis  of  the 
hovering  clouds. —notwithstanding  the  (wn  great  models  which  (liordano  followed  in  his 
".Satan's  Overthrow,"  we  caniiol  hesitate  (o  pronounce  this  an  admiiaMc  ]iii'lin-e. 


'WWi   COHKKSPONDENT, 


AFTKll 

GERARD    TERBURG. 


In  plai'ing  the  caliinet  ]inin(ers  of  Holland  and  the  Netherlands  side  hy  side  and  in 
com])aring  their  special  characteristics  in  this  work',  we  have  had  fre(|iient  opportunitie.s 
of  estimating  Gerard  Tcrhur;':.  llis  pieces  rank  amongst  the  most  hi-illiaiit  gems  that  can 
adorn  any  collection  of  pictures.  In  their  splendid  treatment  of  light  and  colour,  they  are 
efpial  to  the  hest  works  of  his  renowned  scholars,  Dow,  Mieris,  and  Netscher;  although 
they  disjilay  less  poetical  I'eeling  than  Dow's,  less  freedom  and  humoiu-  than  Mieris',  and 
are  more  simple  than  the  comjiositions  of  Netscher.  In  the  Belvedere  Gallery  there  arc 
two  pictures  by  Tcrburg — "The  Dessert,""  a  woman  peeling  an  apple  for  an  elegantly  attii-ed 
child,  and  "The  Correspondent,"  a  fair  lady  with  a  strongly  Dutch  east  oi' countenance — the 
same  figures  ajipear  throughout  a  whole  series  of  Terlmrg's  productions. 

The  most  celebrated  picture  by  this  painter  is  "The  Swearing  to  the  Treaty  of 
Peace  in  Munster  between  Spain  and  (he  Netherlands,'"  in  Amsterdam  -  the  porfr.iits  of  the 
.\mbassadors  who  ratified  (liat  highly  important  document.  The  incture,  however,  in  point 
ol'  com[)osition  is  in  (he  main  a  failure,  as  might  be  easily  supposcil,  for  Tcrburg  had  no 
talent  for  composition,  lieliiiid  the  Austrian  Count  Traiittmannsdnrf — the  ]irincipal  fore- 
ffronnd  figure — who  liolds  the  treaty  in  his  hand,  are  a  number  of  faces  all  directed  towards 
him — these,  ever  diminishing  in  size,  betray  the  painter's  great  ignorance  of  perspective  while, 
at  the  same  time,  they  have  a  repulsive  effect. 

Terburg  was  born  in  Zenil  in  KiOS  ami  died  at  an  advanced  age  at  Deventer. 


41^ 


324  THE    C4ALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 


T  HE     F  A  I  R, 

AFTER 

PIETER    VAN    LAAR. 


It  was  the  third  of  Ano-iist,  1626,  the  festival  of  St.  Mary  of  tlie  Snow  in  Rome.  On 
the  oilier  side  of  the  Tiber  might  be  heard  tlie  wikl  shouts  of  joy  uttered  by  the  genuine 
descendants  of  the  old  Roman  pL'hs  who,  had  they  sufficient  bread  to  eat,  and  could  indulge 
in  gladiatorial  pastime,  considered  themselves  at  the  very  pinnacle  of  happiness.  The  huts  of 
the  Trastaveriners  were  decorated  with  green  boughs.  On  the  barren  hill  opposite  the  Circus 
Ma^rhmtx  were  erected  temporary  booths  which  seemed  to  be  covered  with  the  chequered 
ragged  aprons  of  the  wives  and  daughters  of  the  fishermen  in  Trastavere.  Pifferari  from  the 
Ahruzzi  and  ])easants  from  the  Campagna  fraternized  with  the  owners  of  the  j)ure  Roman 
profile,  the  pride  of  the  inhabitants  "yon  side  the  Tiber"  and  the  Treveriners  on  this  side,  the 
Romans  par  e.TceUmce,  in  the  I]urning  heat  of  the  sun,  passed  slowly  over  the  old  bridges,  and 
notwithstanding  their  indift'erent  mien,  were  determined  to  take  their  full  of  joy  in  beholding. 

Like  walking  towers  of  iron,  the  German  Life  Guard  of  Pope  Urban  VIII.  presented 
themselves,  their  steel  helmets  glittering  high  above  the  black  curly  heads  of  the  Italians. 
Here  and  there  were  seen  groups  of  men  with  pale  complexions  and  flaxen  hair,  generally 
richly  dressed.  These  were  the  Northern  artists  who  looked  on  with  a  kind  of  ethnographical 
astonishment,  while  the  rabble  were  fighting  with  green  boughs  and  storming  the  maccaroni 
booths.  They  appeared  to  take  a  lively  interest  in  tlie  picturescpie  dances  of  the  fishermen 
and  their  robust  wives,  and  seemed  to  be  especially  anxious  to  preserve  the  soundness  of 
their  organs  of  hearino-  as  indeed  there  was  need  to  be  with  the  shouting  of  the  charlatans 
and  their  Bnjaz::i  which  was  heard  in  all  directions,  the  Iwg-pipe  symphonies  played  by  the 
Pift'erari,  and  the  ]uilpit-like  speeches  bawled  out  by  the  numerous  monks  and  other  sons 
of  the  Church  who  were  in  attendance  at  this  very  singular  display  of  swearing,  fighting, 
robbing,  singing,  playing,  &c. 

Among  the  many  remarkable  groups  that  crossed  the  river  by  the  2'>onte  Bariolomeo, 
one  more  particularly  attracts  our  attention. 

A  tall,  well  built,  and  at  the  same  time  very  handsome  man,  with  long  flowing  auburn 
hair,  with  a  violet  coloured  mantel  in  faultess  antique  folds  hanging  from  his  slioulders,  and 
on  his  right  arm  conducting  a  figiu'e  which  reminds  us  of  the  living  original  of  Pulcinello. 

This  grotesque  figure,  at  first  sight,  consisted  of  a  very  long  pair  of  legs  and  a  head 
upon  which  was  a  small  cap  with  tw^o  small  feathers  nodding  gloomily.  The  head  was  fixed 
between  two  high  shoulders,  over  which  hung  a  scanty  blue  cloak,  the  shortness  of  which 
would  favour  the  presumption  that  the  legs  were  growing  out  of  the  shoulders.  These  legs! 
They  were  more  like  hop-poles,  and  encased  in  pantaloons  of  yellow  leather  of  dimensions 
very  disproportionate  the  legs  themselves.  A  pair  of  boots  enveloped  the  feet  and  rose  to 
the  height  where  we  are  justified  in  believing  that  a  pair  of  calves  ought  to  have  been. 

There  was  an  exceedingly  good  natured  smile  on  the  pale  countenance  of  the  figure. 
The  expression  of  the  soft  brown  eyes  was  almost  sad.     The  nose  was  long  and  straight, 


r<^- 


y 


THE    FAIR.    AITF.K     I'lirriCK    A'AN    I.AAIi.  :{2r) 

protrudint;  over  :i  nioutli  wliii'li  seemed  to  liavc  upon  it  a  sometimes  pleasinjr,  hut  aiion 
ail  ironical  smile.  Aljove  (ho  mouth  was  a  mustaclie  wliirh  corresponded  with  I  he  other 
jiteidiarities  of  the  figure.  A  few  scattered  hairs  tenderly  nursed  h;id  ffrown  to  ahout  a  8pan 
in  leniith:  these  were  twisted  together  so  as  to  form  two  points  which  <  iiiled  up  nearly  to 
the  eyes,  then  like  delicate  antenna'  turned  towards  the  nose  so  as  to  serve  as  protectors 
against  its  ''hitting  against  a  stone."  'flie  riglit  arm,  covered  from  the  ejljow  hy  the  mantle, 
was  placed  in  that  of  his  liandsoine  comiianioti:  the  left  Imnd  rested  on  tiic  hill  of  ;i  rnpier; 
tiie  length  of  which  was  in  good  keeping  with  the  stilts  hy  which  it  hung. 

This  nohle  pair  placed  themselves  on  the  left  side  of  the  hridge,  and  watched  the 
passers-by. 

In  a  short  time  the  handsomer  of  the  two  observed  two  men  arm  in  arm  approaching 
with  rapid  strides.  One  of  them  on  arriving  at  the  spot  noticed  the  loungers  and  waved  his 
hand  to  them. 

"Ola!   Signor  <  iiovacciiinol" 

"Who  is  this  gentleman?"  entjuircd  the  cnricaturc. 

"Claude  Lorrain,  friend  Peter,"  was  the  answer. 

"Does  he  speak  Italian?" 

"He  has  long  forgotten  his  Lorraine  French." 

Claude  Lorrain  and  his  companion  advanced  a  fisw  steps  nearer.  Tliey  kept  together 
like  buskin  and  sandal; — Ash  Wednesday  and  the  feast  of  .St.  ^lary  of  the  .Snow — a  Bajazzo 
jest  and  a  tomb-stone  I 

Claude  Lorrain  was  corpident,  looked  very  contented,  and  smiled  with  tlic  nimalile 
indolence  oi'  a  Christian  Koinan.  By  the  side  of  this  good  humoured  person,  his  companion, 
looked  somewhat  dismal.  His  hair,  in  contra-distinction  to  that  of  Claude's  which  was  in 
tiowino-  locks,  was  thick  and  short,  trivins  to  his  stern  countenance  somethini>'  of  a  Hrulus 
look.  Instead  of  a  cloak  he  wore  a  really  ancient  toga,  white,  with  the  red  stripe  of  a  Roman 
senator,  with  whicli  his  red  jiaintcrs  ca]i,  suggestive  of  the  Cinqueeentist,  did  not  very 
well  agree. 

"Whom  have  you  on  your  arm,  friend  Ciovacchino?"  asked  Claude,  casting  a 
surprised  look  at  the  long-legged  scarecrow,  and  then  familiarly  nodding  to  that  individual. 

"A  novice  for  the  Fexta  di  batfeximo.  This  brave  young  I'ellow  arrived  here  yesterdaj- 
from  Harlem  on  his  fine  Wallonian  horse — which  I  can  recommend  you,  Poussin,  as  a  model — 
and  his  great  wish  is,  as  soon  as  jjossible  to  be  introduced  to  the  "Sriii/der/irnf'"  and  get 
himself  christend  with  Tiber  water.'" 

The  caricature  bowed  and  raised  his  cap.  An  intellectual  smile  passed  over  his 
pensive  countenance. 

"(ientlenien,"  said  he,  speaking  French  wvy  fluently,  "I  consider  it  an  omen  of  good 
fortune  that  I  should  meet  with  him,  who  of  all  the  piiinfers  in  Home,  with  the  exce])tioii 
of  my  i'riend,  Joachim  Sandrart,  I  value  the  highest." 

*' Accipiamiis  omen!"  .said  Nicholas  Poussin  seizing  the  hand  of  his  new  acquaintance, 
and  no  doubt  giving  it  a  classical  shake.    "May  you  he  a  lucky  augerer..." 

"The  birds  you  see  liefore  you  are  at  least  as  great  as  the  eagle  of  Pomulus,"  said 
Sandrart  smiling. 

Claude  cast  an  angry  look  at  Poussin. 


326  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"You  seem  to  have  made  up  your  mind  tlioroughly  to  spoil  our  festival  with  j'our 
antique  babhle;"'  said  Claude,  in  the  broad  patois  of  Lorraine.  "How  rude,  how  very  impolite 
of  you,  Sandrart,  to  begin  a  miserable  joke — for  you  will  never  make  anything  out  of  it — 
and  to  forget  to  mention  the  name  of  the  gentleman  you  have  just  introduced...' 

"Noble  Sir,"  answered  the  long  legs,  again  making  obeisance,  "my  name  is  Peter 
van  Laar . . ." 

"I  thank  you,  friend  Peter,"  returned  Claude  pressing  the  hand  of  the  Dutchman. 
"I  have,  it  is  true,  never  heard  of  you,  but  I  hope  sincerely  to  sec  the  more  of  you...  And 
now  allow  me  one  remark.  As  there  is  no  doubt  that  we  painters  are  'noble  gentlemen' 
I  should  think  it  would  not  l)e  necessary — no  matter  on  what  occasion — more  particularly 
to  assure  each  other  of  the  fact.  I  beg  you  rather,  friend  Peter,  to  consider  me  as  your 
lirother,  and  first  of  all,  by  way  of  proving  your  brotherly  affection  towards  me,  I  must 
request  that  you  will  dispense  with  all  inconvenient  roundal^out  titles,  and  especially  avoid 
any  kind  of  ceremony  and  compliment  when  addressing  your  very  obedient...  But  give  me 
your  arm,  Peter,  and  let  us  press  forward  into  the  crowd  of  merry  people!  Look  there, 
friend,  opposite,  where  the  red  flag  is  waving!    That  is  the  Falernian  booth..." 

"If  you  think  of  conquering  a  bottle  of  wine  there,"  said  Sandrart  laughing,  "it  is 
prett}'  clear,  that  you  will  be  obliged  to  make  use  of  a  good  many  very  intelligible  com- 
pliments!   Why,  I  see  the  people  have  absolutely  besieged  the  booth..." 

"That  does  not  matter.  We'll  contrive  to  make  our  way  inside  and  find  a  comfortable 
place  where  we  can  have  a  word  in  confidence  with  the  Signor  da  Falei'no  quite  undisturbed. 
I  sent  off  my  three  servants  to  the  booth  two  hours  ago,  in  oi'der  that  they  might  take 
possession  of  a  table  and  seats,  and  staunchly  defend  them  against  any  who  might  think 
proper  to  ]ay  claim  to  them;  and  I  further  ordered  them  tliat  if  they  foimd  talking  would 
not  do,  they  should  make  good  use  of  their  knobbed  sticks— at  all  events  they  will  keep  the 
tables  for  us." 

"Your  rascally  servants  you  will  probably  find  under  the  table  which  they  are  to 
defend,"  observed  Poussin. 

"Do  not  be  afraid;  I  have  not  given  them  a  denaro,  and  I've  instructed  the  landlord 
by  letter  not  to  give  them  credit  before  I  come." 

"You  ought  not  to  muzzle  the  ox  that  threshes!"  said  Sandrart. 

"O,  if  I  see  the  rascals  really  at  work,  if  they  well  pepper  the  soup  for  these  Traste- 
verians,  Renato  shall  supply  them  with  as  much  wine  as  they  like  to  drink!  But  these 
Romans  are  a  great  deal  too  sparing  of  the  real  thing — they  depend  too  much  upon  bullying 
and  bawling — they  are  a  long  time  before  they  come  to  blows." 

"For  that  reason  Master  Claude  must  undertake  the  difficult  task,"  continueil  Poussin, 
"of  giving  the  people  of  Rome  an  idea  of  the  art  of  fighting  now  and  then,  in  order  that 
the  old  glorious  recollections  of  a  sound  threshing,  so  associated  with  the  best  days  of  Rome, 
may  not  become  a  myth." 

"You  sjjeak,  Nicholas,  as  if  it  had  nc^  er  entered  yoiu'  head  to  give  a  member  of  this 
Roman  canaille  a  downright  good  trouncing..." 

"If  this  ever  has  happened,"  replied  Poussin,  carefully  wrapping  himself  up  in  his 
toga,  "it  could  only  have  been  out  of  consideration  for  propriety.  It  would  be  the  height 
of  impoliteness  were  I  to  look  on  merely,  and  take  no  part  in  the  cjuarrels  of  my  friends. 


THK    I'AIK,    AFTKU     TIKIKU     VAN      I.AAK.  :f27 

That  I  have  an  inveterate  dislike  to  ail  snch  scenes  1  venture  to  presume  is  prclly  well  known... 
I  mention  tiiis  only  that  our  frientl  Van  J.iaar  may  not  tiiriii  an  unlavoin-alile  opinion  of  inc." 

"Believe  not  a  word,  I'ietro!"'  eried  Claude  ])ee\isiily.  "Know  lluii  Master  t'ola  makes 
a  i)rof'cssion  ol'  the  art  ol'  undervaluing  his  own  e.xeelleneies  wiili  uU  liie  ri;;mir  nl  an  old 
Roman  repuhliean.  'i'liis  virtuoso  in  paintinji'  and — hrawliiiLT,  would  hur.-t  with  ino<le.-ty 
if  nature  had  not  enilowed  him  with  an  insatiahle  thirst!  It  is  lortunate  lor  the  art  whieh 
he  praetices  with  so  much  success,  and  a  consolation  for  tiie  friends  of  C(i1m,  that  his  thirst 
can  in  a  measure  be  alleviated  hy  means  ol'  wine,  and  tliat  at  least  once  or  twice  a  fortni<^iit 
the  truth  comes  out  Irom  his  own  proper  j)erson."" 

"Remind  me  not  of  my  weakness,"  said  Pouasin  somewhat  piipicd,  "or  on  my  word 
of  honour  I  will  never  drink  a  drop  of  wine  in  your  presence." 

"You  i;'o  too  far,  brother  Nicholas,"  oiiservcd  Sandrart  in  a  pacifvinj;  tone.  "There  is 
no  weakness  in  the  circumstance  of  the  first  master  in  Rome  declaring  himself  when  he  has 
justly  earned  the  title." 

"It  is  exactly  the  reverse  of  weakness,"  added  Clauilc  nicrril}-,  "to  challenge  all  the 
world  to  a  cond)al  when  one  is  detcrmine<l  to  meet  it  sword  in  hand." 

"I  shall  go  my  own  way,  alone,  gentlemen..." 

"Go  where  you  like,"  said  Claude,  "as  soon  as  you  have  stood  god-father  to  our 
Signer  Pietro." 

"I  shall  take  leave  of  absence  now." 

"Very  well,  Cola.  AVc  shall  certainly  miss  you  very  nuich,  liut  our  cunsolatiun  will 
be  that  you  find  yourself  happier  in  your  dreams  of  old  amj)hitheatres  and  monuments,  dry 
old  accpieducts,  and  similar  sublime  objects,  than  in  the  society  of  your  sincere  friends." 

Poussin,  who  in  his  re\crie  had  withdrawn  several  paces,  threw  off  his  toga  and 
made  towards  them  with  a  cheerful  face. 

"Recall  what  you  have  said!    Here  is  my  arm,  Claude!    I  am  at  your  service." 

"We  know  that  very  well!"   laughed  Lorraine  to  himself. 

After  encountering  sundry  hindrances  to  their  progress  they  at  length  reached  the 
Falernian  wine  booth.  (3ppositc  this  booth  a  sort  of  frame-work  liad  been  set  up  in  which 
Master  Pulcinello  had  just  been  making  his  renowned  confession  to  a  Capuchin  father. 

Peter  van  Laar  looked  with  great  interest  on  the  hero  of  the  tragi-comedy  w  ho  bore 
a  striking  resemblance  to  himself. 

"You  have  beaten  your  wife!"  eried  the  Capuchin-pup[>ct  to  Pidcinello.  "Confess, 
wretch,  or  the  ' Interdictio  aqiiw  et  ignis'  fall  upon  your  rascally  head..." 

"1  neither  eat  fire  nor  drink  water,"  crowed  Pulcinello. 

"In  hell  they  will  not  give  you  a  drop  of  water,  and  you  will  have  to  eat  fire." 

"Oh!  Ah!  Ah!  Ugh!"  cried  the  puppet-culprit. 

"Have  you  beaten  your  blessed  wife  Pulcinella?" 

"I'aterj  I  am  lame,  quite  lame;  how  can  I  beat  any  one?  Look  at  my  long  nose,  the 
humi)  on  my  back — my  thin  legs,  and  then  say  whether  in  all  Rome  you  can  find  a  second 
cripple  such  as  I,  a  Bombaccio  like  me..." 

"Fer  bacco!''  cried  the  wife  of  the  cxhiltitcr  who  stood  near  them,  "Master  l*ulcincllo, 
no  lies!  Your  living  image  stands  at  this  moment  before  the  comdo  to  prove  to  you  that 
you  are  a  liar,  and  to  give  you  the  lie  in  the  face." 


328  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  lady  in  the  "picturesque  rags"  pointed  with  her  cane  to  the  astonished  Peter 
van  Laar.  Loud  roars  of  laughter  from  tliu  mob,  which  had  by  this  time  become  crowded, 
succeeded  tliis  imprt>ni)itu. 

"//  Baiiihoccio!    Pulcinello  in  life  size!   Evrivo!"'  proceeded  fnan  hundreds  of  tln-oats. 

"These  people  must  really  have  got  scent  that  we  intend  to  celebrate  a  Festa  di 
hatleairno,  and  that  we  are  at  a  loss  for  a  name  to  give  iiim  who  i.s  to  be  christened!"  cried 
Lorraiii  with  a  hearty  laugh,  looking  alternately  at  Pulcinello  and  the  disconcerted  Peter 
van  Laar.    "Bainbocciol   Did  you  ever  hear  a  more  famous  no)n  de  guerre^' 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Van  Laar  with  a  painful  smile,  "but  I  am  oi'  opinion  that  the 
deformity  of  my  figure,  without  the  addition  of  this  ugly  name,  is  but  too  strongly  impressed 
u|)on  my  memory..." 

"Bah!  This  olil  Donna  di  lihertu  is  no  fool,  she  does  not  want  sagacity.  I  declare  she 
possesses  more  wit  than  the  whole  club — Allans  forward!  Long  live  Pidcinello-Bamboccio 
the  godi'ather  of  our  worthy  friend!  Long  live  Bamboccio  the  second  whom  we  embrace  as 
our  brother!    May  you  live  to  do  credit  to  your  most  excellent  name!"' 

The  crowd  before  the  wine  booth  were  obliged  to  make  room;  the  painters  seated 
themselves  at  the  table  preserved  for  them  by  Poussin's  servants,  and  by  C'laude's  orders  the 
marionette  theatre  was  brought  close  before  the  booth,  in  order  that  the  new  Bamboccio 
might  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing  how  his  name-sake  was  accustomed  to  l)ehave.  The 
wine  was  placed  upon  the  table,  the  painters  began  to  drink,  and  Pulcinello  siiowed  off  his 
ready  wit. 

The  pujjpet  Bamboccio  gave  his  wife  a  sound  drubbing  for  exercising  her  loquacity 
in  telling  the  Capuchin  father  of  the  matrimonial  maxims  acted  upon  by  her  stronger  half. 
The  puppet  wife  had  just  time  enough  to  tell  a  monk  the  treatment  she  had  received,  and 
then  she  died. 

Pulcinello  seeing  the  fatal  turn  of  things  speaks  a  long  monologue,  and,  in  his  ti-ouble, 
appeals  to  the  Capucliin,  who,  however,  is  inexorable  and  immediately  calls  in  the  hang-man. 
Pulcinello  in  vain  offers  him  his  empty  wine  bottle,  his  cap,  long  nose,  and  hump  on  his 
back,  at  last  his  great  treasure,  his  thorn  stick  with  which,  as  nothing  will  soften  the  monk, 
he  knocks  him  down  and  kills  him.  This  Roman  puppet  drama  ends  with  the  execution  of 
Pulcinello,  whose  body  devils  fetch  away  from  the  gallows,  while  angels  fetch  away  the 
monk  and  carry  him  off  to  heaven. 

Peter  van  Laar  was  very  attentive  during  this  grotesque  exhibition. 

In  the  mean  time  the  wine  began  to  work  its  effects.  They  declared  themselves 
disposed  for  wine  and  laughter,  "sermons  and  soda  water  the  day  after,"  if  these  were  not  the 
exact  words  used,  they,  no  doubt,  would  have  been  had  they  been  ac(]uainted  with  our 
English  bard — at  all  events  they  began  their  carousal.  Claude  Lorrain  fired  off  a  constant 
volley  of  jokes  and  witticisms;  Poussin  began  one  herfiic  speech  after  another,  and  while 
reciting  pathetic  verses  he,  from  time  to  time,  drew  his  sword,  thrusting  it  about  in  the  air, 
in  order  to  intimidate  the  numbers  of  people  in  front  of  the  booth,  whose  curiosity  had  led 
them  thither.  Sandrart  continued  as  ever,  like  the  ^^ Arena  sine  cake,"  and  had  happily 
arrived  at  the  stage  of  speaking  Latin,  and  Peter  van  Laar,  who  proved  himself  an 
astonishing  virtuoso  in  drinking,  made  vain  endeavours  to  drown  all  care  in  the  excellent 
wine  of  Falerno. 


TIIK    l-AIK,    AFTKi;    I'lKTKIJ    VAX     I.AAIJ.  329 

"But  I  will  not  be  called  Bamboccio!"  was  the  unvaried  refrain  every  time  he  filled 
his  glass  and  re])laced  the  bottle  on  the  table. 

In  spite  of  his  repeated  oiijections,  the  christening  ceremonies,  luill' comic,  half . solemn, 
were  proceeded  with,  and  Sandrart,  who,  as  the  countryman  of  the  long-legged  Peter,  was 
the  chief  actor,  pronounced  these  words — 

"In  the  name  of  St.  Luke  I  baptize  you  Peter  as  the  brother  Bamboccio  of  the  most 
respectable,  honourable,  and  worthy  society  of  the  "Schilderbent"  (Union  for  paintin<rj  in 
Rome.    Here's  to  the  health  of  Bamboccio!' 

After  the  fourth  bottle  I'eter  van  Laar  became  fully  reconciled  to  all  that  had 
preceded.  By  and  by  he  endeavoured  to  prove  himself  deserving  of  the  name  conferred 
upon  him  by  getting  into  the  frame-work  i'rom  which  his  namesake  had  made  his  exit. 
He  made  the  most  strange  grimaces  and  threw  his  long  legs  and  arms  about  in  the 
most  grotesque  manner  in  the  world.  Claude  took  Poussin's  toga,  hung  it  over  his  head 
and  fastening  it  at  his  throat  with  a  bit  of  cord,  gave  him  very  much  the  appearance  of  a 
Capuchin  monk. 

Thus  attired,  Claude  and  Bamboccio  mounted  one  of  the  largest  tables,  and  went 
through  a  similar  performance  to  that  which  had  lieen  already  presented  by  the  marionettes. 

"Have  you  beaten  your  wife  Pulcinella?"  began  Claude  as  the  monk.  "Confess 
immediately,  scoundrel  of  a  Bamboccio:  I  will  excommunicate,  and  interdict  fire  and  water 
for  you." 

Peter  van  Laar  made  such  faces  and  kicked  about  his  legs  in  such  a  surprisingly 
comical  and  outrageous  manner,  that  all  the  spectators  assembled  before  the  booth  were 
roaring  with  laughter. 

"Answer  directly...'' 

"Mar,  Uw  moeiet  myn  'brizzeholt''  [/even!  You  must  first  give  me  my  bufioon's  club!' 
roared  Bamboccio  the  second. 

"You  do  not  need  it;  take  your  rapier..." 

"That's  true!  I  can  do  so...' 

Peter  van  Laar  drew  his  rapier,  and  with  his  arm  stiffly  pressed  against  his  breast, 
used  it  precisely  in  the  way  that  Pulcinello  is  accustomed  to  carry  his  club. 

The  farce  was  carried  further.  One  of  the  irirls  in  attendance  on  the  guest.s  was 
obliged  to  submit  to  being  beaten  to  death  by  Pulcinello,  and  Bamboccio  was  just  about,  as 
the  pseudo-capuchin  had  done  before  him,  to  send  the  rascal  to  the  loiver  regions,  when  a 
rough  voice  cried,  "Hold!'' 

A  real  hooded  friar  forced  his  way  through  the  gaping  ci-owd. 

"Signori!  whoever  you  may  be,"  said  the  Brother  of  the  Order,  addressing  Claude 
Lorraine,  "I  desire  you  to  remove  your  mask,  and  that  you  cease  to  profane  the  glorious 
institutions  of  our  Church.    I  command  you!" 

"You  know  not  what  you  would  have!'  said  Poussin,  placing  himself  in  a  classical 
attitude.  "Have  you — I  know  you  by  your  red  beard — I  say  have  you  not  stood  by  and 
looked  on  when  the  capuchin  was  murdered  without  intruding  your  interference?  Eh  hii'ii! 
Surely  we  may  i)e  allowed  to  represent  the  same  scene?" 

"I  am  not  bound  to  argue  with  you!  I  protest  against  the  continuance  of  your 
disgraceful  performance!"  said  the  monk  wrathfully. 

Galleries  of  Vienna.  42 


330  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

"Go  on!" 

"Come  clown  from  the  table!" 

"Hear  me,  good  friend;"  stammered  Bamboccio,  convulsively  holding  his  rapier,  "You 
no  doubt  are  aware  that  I  am  a  Pulcinello..." 

"And  nothing  else!"  interru[)ted  the  monk  sarcastically. 

"AVell,  then,  I  must  act  in  accordance  with  the  plot  of  the  piece — I  must  kill  a  capuchin, 
and  you  need  not . . ." 

"Think  on  your  crimes  and  those  of  your  parents,  wretched  Bamboccio;  reflect  on  the 
miseries  you ..." 

"What!  you  simpleton!  You  think  to  insult  me  by  calling  me  Bamboccio...  This  is 
an  honourable  name  and  I  am  proud  of  it..." 

"An  honourable  name  for  you,  certainly,  for  you  are  not  only  a  cripple,  but  a  scare- 
crow— an  imp  of  Satan..." 

The  ])riest  had  scarcely  uttered  the  words  before  Van  Laar  raised  his  rapier,  and  the 
capuchin  would  have  felt  its  point,  had  it  not  happened,  fortunately  for  him,  that  the  rapier 
struck  against  one  of  the  beams  of  the  booth.  The  thrust  was  made  with  such  violence  that 
Bamboccio  lost  his  Ijalance  and  was  precipitated  from  the  table.  The  table  fell  too,  and 
Master  Claude  was  sprawling  full  length  on  the  ground. 

During  this  disaster  Poussin  was  engaged  in  dealing  out  blows  to  the  mob  who  had 
begim  to  take  part  in  the  fray,  and  Sandrart  was  doing  his  best  to  keep  them  oflT,  in  order 
to  give  his  companions  time  to  gain  their  feet.  Claude  was  quickly  up  again  and  by  the 
side  of  his  friends  who  soon,  jammed  in  amongst  the  enemy,  were  unable  to  use  their 
weapons,  and  were  hustled  and  pummeled  by  the  Trasveriues  to  their  hearts'  content.  The 
friends  got  jiarted  from  each  other  and  escaped  with  tlic  greatest  difficulty,  each  in  a 
different  direction,  from  the  "scrimmage." 

Our  friend  Bamboccio  had  not  strength  enough  to  rise.  He  lay  in  a  position  anything 
but  agreeable;  squeezed  up  behind  the  top  of  the  table,  which  leaned  obliquely  against  the 
frame-work  that  should  have  supported  it,  and  which  thus  served  him  as  a  bastion,  he  had 
but  a  very  indistinct  view  of  the  scene  which  was  going  on  outside  the  booth.  While  the 
fray  was  at  its  height  Master  Renato,  taking  advantage  of  the  opportunity  and  the  helplessness 
of  Bamboccio,  seized  the  painter  by  the  legs  and  slipped  him  into  his  sanctum,  a  small 
partition  in  the  booth  where  the  bottles  and  casks  were  kept. 

It  was  night  when  Bamboccio,  who  had  slept  uninterruptedly  from  the  time  of  his 
incarceration,  was  roused  by  the  host,  who,  with  some  difficulty,  set  him  on  his  legs. 

"Ha!"  whispered  Eenato,  "get  up  and  sneak  out  of  the  pliice.  Say  not  a  word!  The 
people  who  beat  your  friends  are  sitting  here  carousing...    Don't  you  hear  them?" 

Trembling  with  cold,  and  scarcely  conscious  of  his  situation  or  of  what  the  landlord 
was  talking.  Van  Laar  drowsily  rose. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened?"  he  nniftered. 

"A  very  bad  job.  If  you  are  recognised  you  will  be  put  into  prison,  'i'ou  have  struck 
a  venerable  Pater  Capuchin  with  the  bare  blade  of  your  rapier,  and  for  ought  I  know..." 

"Is  he  dead?"  enquired  Van  Laar  horrified  by  the  announcement. 

"Ask  no  further!  Here  is  the  way  out.  Now,  make  the  best  use  of  your  legs,  and 
lose  no  time." 


THK     KAIK.    AKTKl!     I'lKIKK     VAN     I.AAIt.  331 

Van  L:i:ir  ( rt'[)t  tlirougli  a  slit  in  the  canvas  which  covered  the  booth,  and  discovered 
tliat  it  was  niglit.  A  ray  of  light  was  visible  in  one  rir  two  booths  close  by,  and  here  and 
there  were  seen  small  groiijis  of  dark  figures,  otherwise  all  was  still. 

Master  I'eter,  who  began  to  have  an  indistinct  recollection  of  his  inauguration  and 
of  the  scene  in  whicli  the  Fi'stn  <li  liatlonuiio  was  celebrated,  felt  a  heavy  weight  upon  his 
conscience  that  some  dreadful  mischicii  something  altogether  horrible,  nuist  have  occurred, 
and  that  too  by  his  hand. 

Did  not  Renato  say,  that  he,  Peter  van  T..aar,  had  attacked  a  capuchin  monk  with  his 
rapier,  or  had  he  only  dreamt  this  while  lying  amongst  the  liarrels  and  bottles...  But  no! 
the  fact  of  his  having  struck  at  the  caj)ucliin  monk  came  vividly  to  his  mind. 

He  had  killed  the  holy  father! 

His  knees  struck  together.  Heavy  drops  of  perspiration  pursued  each  other  and  fell 
from  his  distressed  countenance.  He  drew  his  rapier  li-om  its  sheath  and  discovered  rtist 
upon  the  blade — that  must  be  tiie  blood  of  the  capuchin  monk! 

This  conviction  so  powerfully  affectetl  him  that  he  resolved  on  immediate  flight,  and 
if  possible,  at  once  to  retreat  to  Harlem.  He  ran  till  he  had  passed  the  last  house  in  Trastevere, 
and  had  reached  the  open  countrv.  Almost  sinking  from  exhaustion,  and  suffering  from  the 
excess  committed  in  the  earlier  part  of  the  day,  he  would  willingly  have  made  a  halt,  but 
he  was  haunted  by  the  idea  of  a  murder,  and  his  head,  still  muddled,  was  full  of  fancies, 
of  scenes  of  executions,  torture,  the  rack,  iJtc. 

At  length  he  arrived  at  an  unoccupied  herdsman's  hut.  He  could  proceed  no  farther, 
his  legs  refused  to  perform  their  functions,  and  if,  by  continuing  his  retreat  but  for  a  few 
moments,  he  could  have  escaped  the  shirri,  whom  he  fancied  were  tracking  him,  he  would 
have  been  totally  unable  to  the  task.    He  laid  himself  down  to  rest. 

What  had  become  of  his  friends?  Why  did  they  forsake  the  most  unhappy  painter 
that  ever  entered  Rome?  No  doubt  they  were  all  imprisoned  and  writhing  imder  the  torture 
which  Bamboccio's  long  legs  were  momentarily  expecting. 

This  miserable  train  of  thought  was  interrupted  by  the  approach  of  a  man.  Van  Laar 
was  now  ready  to  submit  to  his  fate.  But  instead  of  the  sbirri  a  drimken  drover  presented 
himself,  disputing  the  right  of  the  present  possessor  of  the  hut;  this  dispute,  however,  was 
soon  adjusted,  and  the  man  brought  to  reason  by  the  wholesome  appliance  of  the  painter's 
blows,  which  he  bestowed  very  lii)erally  on  the  rightful  owner  of  the  hut.  The  drover  had 
been  celebrating  the  feast  of  St.  Maria,  and,  as  he  had  been  intoxicated  since  the  preceding 
afternoon,  he  could  give  no  account  about  the  capuchin  monk. 

In  a  few  minutes  this  worthy  proposed  articles  of  peace,  to  which  the  painter  willingly 
assented,  and  the  two  lay  together  very  quietly  during  the  night,  for  the  ^'gran  spirito"  bore 
no  resentment  and  the  chief  point  to  be  gained  was  rest  for  his  aching  limbs. 

The  good  understanding  between  the  new  comrades  was  greatly  heightened  when  in 
the  morning  Van  Laar  drew  out  his  purse  and  gave  it  the  herdsman,  on  condition  that  the 
latter  would  procure  him  something  to  eat  and  observe  the  strictest  silence  should  any  one 
make  enquiries  about  his  unfortunate  guest.  At  the  same  time  he  commissioned  Matteo  to 
gain  every  possible  information  relative  to  the  fate  of  a  certain  capuchin  monk,  who  had 
been  attacked  by  a  stranger  the  day  before. 

Matteo  kissed  tiie  hand  of  his  new  companion,  and  so  great  was  his  gratitude  for  the 

"  42* 


332  THE    GALLERIES    OF    VIENNA. 

handsome  present  he  had  received,  that  he  would  fain  have  done  the  same  by  his  foot  had  he 
been  permitted.  The  drover  then  shewed  Van  Laar  his  herd  of  oxen  grazing  at  a  Httle  distance 
from  where  they  stood,  and  enjoined  him  to  ivcep  an  eye  upon  them  during  his  absence. 
By  way  of  inducting  him  into  office  the  drover  put  into  his  hand  a  long  staff  provided  with 
an  iron  point  at  the  end,  a  weapon  which  would  probably  have  terminated  all  the  painter's 
earthly  sorrows,  if  Signor  Matteo  had  not  laid  it  on  the  top  of  the  hut  on  his  arrival  and 
wholly  forgotten  it  in  consequence  of  the  threshing  he  afterwards  received. 

The  painter  kept  up  his  courage  as  long  as  his  new  friend  remained  by  him.  As 
soon,  however,  as  that  worthy  person,  like  a  ghost  when  the  cock  crows,  had  vanished  in 
tlie  fog  which  was  collected  over  the  boggy  moor,  and  the  gray  of  morning  began  to  be 
perceptible,  and  the  cold,  cutting  wind  which  usually  precedes  the  rising  of  the  sun  seemed 
to  blow  through  him,  his  every  limb  shivered;  poor  Peter  thought  himself  the  most  miserable 
of  mortals,  and  neither  the  weapons  he  bore,  nor  the  cheerful  bellowing  of  his  long-horned 
charges  were  sufficient  to  inspire  him  witli  courage. 

He  remained  in  this  state  of  suspense  till  noon  when  the  drunken  herdsman  reappeared 
bringing  the  consolitarv  news  that  several  slirri  on  horse-back  were  scoiu-ing  the  neigh- 
bourhood in  search  of — as  far  as  he  could  understand — a  foreign  painter  remarkable  for 
his  long  legs. 

Peter  van  Laar  was  about  to  rim  the  sharp  point  of  the  herdsman's  goad  through 
his  heart. 

In  the  distance  appeared  foiu'  horsemen. 

"Kill  me!"  cried  Peter  to  the  herdsman.  "I  feel  that  I  have  no  strength  left  in 
my  arms." 

"Hurrah!    Bamboccio!"  cried  a  well  known  voice. 

Claude  Lorrain  came  galloping  uji,  and  in  a  few  moments  Sandrart  was  on  the 
spot  likewise. 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  said  Joachim.  "We  have  found  him  at  last!  But  Peter  what 
anxiety  j-ou  have  cost  us  by  your  disappearance!" 

Peter  listened  in  astonishment.  He  imagined  that  his  friends  feigned  an  unconcerned 
manner  in  order  to  take  him  as  little  as  possible  by  surprise,  and  to  perform  the  act  of 
justice  which  they  were  bound  to  execute — to  make  him  their  jirisoner — as  delicately  as 
they  could  in  friendship. 

"Take  my  life  Sandrart!  rather  than  betray  me  into  the  hands  of  these  myrmidons!" 
said  Peter  in  a  hoarse  tone. 

Sandrart  and  Lorrain  looked  at  each  other  quite  bewildered. 

"Make  haste  before  the  sbirri  can  seize  me..." 

"AVould  you  not  suppose  that  the  noble  gentleman  has  some  great  crime  on  his 
conscience!"  remarked  one  of  the  servants  of  the  police. 

"Mercy!  mercy!"  roared  Peter  extending  his  withered  arms  towards  heaven. 

"What  does  all  this  mean?"  asked  Sandrart  of  Claude. 

"Mon  JJieii!"  replied  he;  "poor  Bamboccio  is  quite  drunk  from  yesterday — voila  tout. 
Come,  come,  courage  man!  courage!  and  drink  a  drop  out  of  my  flask...  that  will  restore 
you  to  your  senses!  ' 

"Is  there  any  hope?"  he  stammered  out.    "Is  he  still  alive?" 


THK     I-'AIR,    AFTKK    PIETEIl     VAN    I.AAK.  333 

"Who?" 

"The  capuchin  fathcrl" 

"What  capucliin  father?" 

"The  one— the  one  I— killed  yesterday ..."  said  Peter  in  a  broken  scarcely  audible  voice. 

"Where,  for  heaven's  sake?" 

"In  the  Falernian  booth..." 

Claude  Loirain  and  Sandrart  burst  out  into  a  simultaneous  fit  of  laujjhtcr.  Peter's 
anxiety  was  dispelled  in  a  few  words,  but  he  still  seemed  to  view  the  servants  of  justici-  with 
an  eye  of  suspicion. 

"Deceive  me  not,  I  pray  you...  if  matters  are  really  as  you  tell  me,  for  wiiat  purpose 
have  you  brought  these  gentlemen  with  you?" 

"They  were  necessary,  my  good  friend,  in  ease  we  found  your  corpse  among  the  rocks 
of  the  Felix,  or  where  Poussin  and  his  scholars  are  seeking  it  in  the  waves  of  the  Anio," 
anwered  Sandrart. 

"Then  the  capuchin  still  lives?    I  have  not  killed  him..." 

"You  have  not  injured  a  hair  of  his  head!" 

"Well,  then,  who  has  murdered  him?" 

"Your  namesake,  the  Bamboccio  in  the  Pulcinello  pl.ay!"  said  Claude,  again  breaking 
out  into  a  hearty  burst  of  laughter...  "But  our  christening  is  famous!  The  Bamboccio 
of  the  Artists'  Union  has  so  identified  himself  with  Bamboccio-Pulcinello  that  we  are  obliged 
to  shew  him  his  counter-])art  of  rags  and  saw-dust  in  order  to  restore  him  to  his  proper  senses." 

One  of  the  slnrri  dismounted  from  his  horse  and,  after  being  well  remunerated,  gave 
it  over  to  Bamlioccio  who,  according  to  his  own  confession,  felt  as  though  he  had  just  risen 
from  the  dead.  He  sprang  into  the  sbirrfs  saddle  and  made  the  horse  )K'rform  several 
evolutions  which  were  very  little  to  the  taste  of  the  "Zia"  (old  mare). 

The  evening  spent  by  the  friends  at  the  Union  was  one  of  the  merriest  that  even  the 
oldest  Romans,  those  painters  who  had  resided  the  longest  in  Rome,  ever  rememliered  to 
have  enjoyed. 

The  night,  however,  which  Peter  van  Laar  spent  in  the  hut  of  the  herdsman  made 
so  terrible,  so  indellible  an  impression  on  the  mind  of  the  poor  Bamboccio  that  the  delusion 
always  returned  after  he  had  taken  a  certain  quantity  of  wine.  He  would  confess  to  the 
hilarious  members  of  the  Union  with  l)itter  tears  that  he  really  had  murdered  a  cajjuchin: 
and  this  was  invariably  the  finale,  the  concluding  scene  in  their  Bacchanalian  orgies  when 
Peter  was  present.  This  circumstance  has  been  frequently  alluded  to  by  his  biographers, 
who  entertained  the  belief  that  this  j)oor  harmless  man  was  guilty  of  murder. 

Bamboccio  began  to  paint  after  the  manner  of  Poussin,  at  the  same  time  rigidly 
adhering  to  the  drawing  of  his  figures  like  those  of  the  Caracci  imitated  by  Sandrart.  He, 
however,  soon  discovered  that  he  might  work  for  ever,  in  this  way,  without  producing 
anything  worthy  of  attention.  His  pictures  which  he  fully  intended  should  make  a  serious 
impression  upon  the  beholder  had  only  the  eflPect  of  producing  derisive  remarks  or  jocular 
observations  from  his  friends. 

Peter  revenged  himself,  however,  on  Poussin  and  Sandrart  in  a  good  natured,  comical 
manner  by  carricaturing  the  weaker  parts  of  their  pictures.  The  strutting  heroes  of  these 
masters  were  turned   into  suspicious   looking  vagabonds   on  some  marauding  expedition   or 


334  THE    GALLEKIES    OF    VIENNA. 

were  engaged  in  some  ridiculous  pursuit.  Van  Laar  likewise  painted  landscape,  according 
to  Lorraine's  taste  as  he  called  it.  Claude  painted  beautiful  landscapes,  but  the  figures  he 
introduced  in  them  had  no  meaning;  Peter  painted  pictures  the  figures  of  which  were 
composed  of  old,  miserable,  worn  out  asses,  and  half  starved  horses,  these  were  the  chief 
objects;  but  he  added,  as  accompanying  scenery,  scanty  bushes,  foul,  stagnant  water,  and  a 
few  decayed  stumps  of  trees  in  order  to  shew  the  absence  of  the  picturesque. 

These  humorous  productions  created  a  sensation  and  were  sought  by  the  Roman 
lovers  of  art.  These  pictures  were  called  Bambocciados,  a  term  applying  equally  well  to  the 
painter  and  to  the  distorted  forms  and  figures  which  he  portrayed.  Peter  van  Laar  was 
himself  astonished  at  the  success  these  productions  had  met  with;  instead  of  working  for 
the  narrow  circle  of  his  artist  friends,  he,  in  all  earnestness,  began  to  paint  his  strange 
pictures  for  the  world  at  large:  comic  scenes  of  all  descriptions,  markets,  carousals,  hunting 
pieces,  animals,  robbers,  and  others  which,  according  to  the  opinion  expressed  by  Poussin, 
were  not  only  stupid,  but  altogether  void  of  any  meaning  whatever. 

These  Bamboccios,  it  must  be  admitted,  at  the  present  day  are  thought  little  of,  for 
they  offer  nothing  rational  or  even  pleasing.  Their  exaggerated  vulgarity  cannot  force  a  laugh; 
we  are  more  inclined  to  pity.  They  suited  very  well  at  the  time  they  were  painted,  by 
ridiculing  the  mannerism  of  the  historical  painters  who  imbued  their  productions  with  an 
extravagant  pathos,  or  sentimentality  which  offered  food  for  the  dull  humour  of  Van 
Laar — they  are  now,  however,  void  of  interest  any  further  than  they  serve  as  historical 
memoranda.  We  search  for  the  "positive"  in  Bamboccio's  pictures;  we  find  it  only  in  the 
firm  drawing  and  the  clever  arrangement  of  light  and  colour  which  are  worthy  of  comparison 
with  most  masters,  but  these  very  beauties  tend  to  render  the  figures  so  much  the  more 
repulsive. 

Many  pictures  representing  scenes  of  low  life,  which  were  really  painted  by  Van  Laar, 
have  been  attributed  to  Teniers,  Ostade,  and  other  masters.  Although,  taken  on  an  average, 
these  are  somewhat  prosaic,  there  is  still  a  peculiar  characteristic  pervading  their  figures, 
which,  if  they  excite  no  poetic  feeling  in  the  minds  of  the  beholders,  possess  infinitely 
more  interest  than  the  parodies  of  Bamboccio.  What  appears  ugly  in  the  works  of  these 
masters  is  only  accidental,  not  the  principle  of  the  representation;  there  is  some  meaning 
in  it,  and  it  may  to  a  certain  extent  be  justified.  Bamboccio,  whose  chief  aim  is  to  make  his 
figures  as  coarse  as  possible  by  a  singular  combination  of  vulgarity  and  absurdity,  is  by  no 
means  suited  to  the  taste  of  the  present  day;  when  something  of  the  aesthetic  is  expected 
to  be  found. 

Bamboccio  has  had  many  imitators  who  have  vied  with  him  in  the  coarseness  of 
their  representations,  but  they  have  never  equalled  him  in  his  lively  colouring  and  correct 
distribution  of  light. 

After  a  residence  of  sixteen  years  in  Rome,  Bamboccio  returned  to  Amsterdam,  where 
he  died,  a  melancholy  man,  in  1074. 


7^" 


-=_iJ^^,_-^<i^-^-^i?^^ 


CURIOSITY,    AFTKK    SAMUEL    VAN    nOOOSTUATEN.  335 

C  U  1{  1  0  8  1  T  Y, 


AFTER 
SAMUEL    VAN    HOOGSTEATEN. 


Amongst  tlie  numerous  scholars  of  the  old  magician  Rembrandt  who  carved  out  a 
way  for  themselves,  Samuel  Hoogstraten  is  worthy  of  distinction.  Gerbrand  van  den  Eckhout 
possessed  many  of  his  master's  remarkable  effects  of  fliiaroscuro ;  Gerard  Dow  excelled  in 
the  most  correct,  poetical  representation  of  real  life,  and  generated  a  new  style  of  painting 
of  growing  importance  in  the  Dutch  School;  Hoogstraten,  however,  lays  claim  to  having 
sought  to  unite  the  decision  and  correctness  of  form,  in  whidi  Rembrandt  failed,  with  the 
masterly  painting  of  the  old  Netherlander.  Govaert  Flink,  a  fellow-scholar  of  IIoo"-straten, 
is  very  similar  to  liim;  though  Master  Govaert  is  i)leased  to  indulge  in  the  portrayal  of 
mystical  looking  figures  and  heads,  with  a  taste  for  elegance  in  the  a()i)earancc,  while  Hoog- 
straten, when  he  gi\es  way  to  the  impulses  of  his  own  humour,  and  is  not  limited  to  [lortrait 
work,  consorts  rather  with  peasant  life. 

Samuel  van  Hoogstraten  is  a  singular  artist,  generally  too  little  appreciated,  which 
may  arise,  perhaps,  from  his  works  being  so  very  rare,  that  galleries  like  those  of  Dresden, 
Munich,  and  Berlin  do  not  contain  a  single  picture  of  this  master's  hand.  There  is,  perhaps, 
no  Dutchman  who  comes  so  near  Hans  Holbein  the  younger  as  Hoogstraten.  His  perception 
is  perfectly  unconstrained;  but  he  sees  exactly,  he  knows  how  to  introduce  an  appearance 
of  vigorous  nature  and,  through  the  truth  of  representation,  often  displays  an  effect  of  humour, 
sometimes  unsought,  but  which  not  unfrecpiently  has  been  the  evident  object  of  our  Master. 
Hoogstraten's  colouring  is  mellow  and  delicate,  his  management  of  light  excellent. 

This  artist  led  a  very  unsettled  life.  He  was  born  in  Dortrecht,  in  1627;  his  father 
was  a  goldsmith  and  engraver,  but  later  in  life  took  to  painting,  and  educated  his  son  for  the 
art.  At  an  early  age  Samuel  was  |)laced  in  Rembrandt's  study,  where  he  shewed  a  remarkable 
talent  in  the  representation  of  "Still  Life."  Besides  this,  he  took  portraits,  and  with  great 
assiduity  painted  historical  subjects  which  Rembrandt  considered  excellent,  most  likely  on 
account  of  the  spontaneity  of  the  figures,  and  the  decision  with  which  they  were  drawn. 

Induced,  in  all  probability,  by  the  members  of  the  Imperial  court,  Hoogstraten,  with 
his  younger  brother,  Jacob,  went  to  Vienna.  At  this  time  he  was  still  a  very  young  man. 
In  Vienna,  the  Dutch  painter,  commonly  called  the  Batavian,  very  soon  acquired  a  considerable 
reputation.  He  painted  a  series  of  portraits  of  high  personages — most  of  which  works  are  now 
unknown  to  the  world  —  and  besides  these  he  produced  landscapes,  pieces  of  still  life,  and  flowers. 

From  Vienna  the  painter  went  to  Rome,  afterwards  to  England,  where  by  strenuous 
efforts,  he  gained  a  very  fortunate  position.  At  a  later  period,  we  find  him  again  in  Utrecht, 
as  master  of  a  small  school.    Hoogstraten  died  in  Utrecht  in  the  year  1678. 

Hoogstraten  was  a  very  well  informed  man.  He  possessed  distinguished  theoretical 
knowledge,  and  wrote  very  elegant  verses.  His  "Dissertation  upon  Painting"  which  he 
illustrated  by  a  series  of  etchings  by  his  own  hand,  made  a  great  sensation.  This  work  is 
very  seldom  met  with  in  Germany.  From  his  youthful  days  Hoogstraten  understood  the 
handling  of  the  burin;  in  England  he  etched  and  engraved  a  great  deal  for  the  booksellers. 
A  plate  of  his  is  still  in  existence  which  he  engraved  for  an  English  Alinainuk  for  IbGJJ. 


;!36  THE    GALLEKJES    OF    VIENNA. 

The  Belvedere  Gullery  contains  two  pictures  by  this  artist.  One  of  thcni  is  valuable 
as  an  historical  curiosity;  it  is  a  fine  view  of  the  Imperial  residence  in  the  year  1652,  taken 
from  the  side  of  the  Swiss  court.  The  other  picture,  "Curiosity,"  is  a  bearded  old  man  in 
a  fur  cap  looking  out  of  an  antique  window. 

Hoogsfraten  has  given  to  this  head  a  remarkable  expression  of  resoluteness.  The  execution 
is  perfect,  but  not  to  the  sacrifice  of  strength.  The  play  of  the  light  on  the  round  panes  of 
glass  is  very  naturally  given.  Although  the  countenance  has  a  serious  appearance,  still  there  is 
something  humorous,  as  it  looks  from  a  room  which  we  are  quite  sure  is  comfortably  warmed. 

Hoogstraten,  ns  many  of  his  works  serve  to  shew,  a  cotemporary  with  Holbein,  struck 
out  a  path  which  was  to  lead  to  a  great  future — the  "realistic."  His  countryman  had  only 
just  advanced  as  far  as  the  injudicious  copying  of  natural  objects,  and  did  not  sufl^er  the 
painter,  so  learned  in  his  art,  to  make  any  deep  impression  upon  them. 


y  I  E  T  R  I, 

aftj;r 
JOSEPH    KEBELL. 


There  are  many  landscape  painters  in  Austria  whose  names  are  well  known;  Joseph 
Kebell  ranks  as  one  of  the  best.  In  Vienna  he  pursued  a  course  of  study  in  the  architectural 
department,  which  may  be  seen  in  his  splendid  architectural  pieces,  and  likewise  in  the 
correct  perspective  in  his  later  pictures;  he  repaired  betimes  to  Italy  where  he  attracted  the 
attention  of  the  Regent,  Eugen  Beauharnais,  who  recommended  him  to  the  notice  of  his  aunt, 
the  Queen  of  Naples — consort  of  Joachim  Murat.  In  Naples  he  was  chiefly  engaged  in 
painting  marine  and  coast  scenery.  Rehell  had  become  a  renowned  painter  in  his  way, 
when  Ludwig  I.  of  Bavaria,  at  that  time  heir  apparent  to  the  crown,  saw,  in  Rome,  one  of  the 
most  excellent  pictures  by  this  master,  "A  Storm  at  Sea",  which  called  forth  his  admiration. 
However,  Rebell  was  not  to  be  induced  to  go  to  Munich,  but  accepted  the  office  of  director, 
vacant  by  the  death  of  Fiiger,  which  was  offered  him  by  his  Emperor.  Many  master-])ieces 
in  tJie  Imperial  Gallery,  which  had  already  been  doomed  to  oblivion,  were  carefully  restoi-ed 
liy  the  judicious  hand  of  Rebell;  for  this,  as  well  as  for  its  appropriate  arrangement  and 
ornamentation,  the  Gallery  is  much  indei)ted  to  him. 

Notwithstanding  the  various  duties  of  his  office,  Rebell  found  time  to  paint  a  series 
of  six  of  the  most  beautiful  views  on  the  Danube,  for  the  Imperial  palaces.  The  splendid 
view  of  Vietri,  with  a  glance  at  the  Bay  of  Salerno,  is  from  the  time  of  his  sojourn  in  Naples. 

Vietri,  the  ancient  Mercina,  was  the  most  southern  of  the  twelve  chief  cities  of  the 
Etruscans.  "West  of  Salerno  it  rises  from  the  Marina  on  the  declivity  of  the  steep  Monte 
Lil)cratorc.  From  Vietri,  which  took  its  name  from  the  old  glass  and  mirror  maniifactory 
there,  rises,  in  the  direction  of  la  Cava,  the  Valle  dei  molini,  or  the  Valley  of  jNIills,  intersected 
by  a  rushing  brook,  which  works  a  forge  and  fourteen  paper  mills. 

Rebell,  who  produced  a  hundred  and  seventy-three  landscape  i)ieces,  died  on  a  journey 
to  Dresden  in  the  year  1S29. 

PKINTED  BV  A.  II.  TATNE,  KEUDXITZ,  NEAR  LEU'SIC. 


V 


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